


The Silence Between Snowflakes

by GerbilofTriumph



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Past Abuse, i have many feelings about ch4 and most of them are not very good, silly and sweet and sad all together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilofTriumph/pseuds/GerbilofTriumph
Summary: His name was Gwydion--but that wasn't his name. He lived in Llewdor--but that wasn't his home.~*~*~Alexander escapes Manannan's grasp and flees to Daventry, hoping he might find a place that he might call home after years of loss and loneliness. While Daventry embraces him, loves him, shows him all the stories it has within it, the country is also suffering under the worst winter in memory. But it might not just be a hard season: there might be something out there, something chasing the lost prince. Something malevolent, intent on destroying the kingdom snowflake by snowflake, spreading a curse across the lands and infecting its king.(Or: I don't like how King's Quest 2015's Chapter 4 played out, so I've rewritten the whole thing to fit my headcanons and character desires.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	1. Found Family

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider the 2015 game's prologue to chapter 4, with [Graham's Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJKYK44Lynk) and Manannan stealing Alexander from his cradle in front of his parents, to remain part of this tale despite not being explicitly included here.
> 
> The intention is for Valanice to be read as either Vee or Neese depending on the player's choice in ch3--she's meant to be more wholly Valanice (like her classic version, or the novels version).

Gwendolyn was smiling when she walked into his room, but Graham, after decades of being king, could tell when someone’s expression was false. It wasn’t especially hard in this case. He could see tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. She kept up the brave face right until the point when he spoke his first words to her that day: “Do you want to talk about it?”

She froze, one foot in the air. “Talk about...?” she said, with forced nonchalance.

“Whatever you like. But I think you have something specific on your mind.”

And that was all it took for her carefully drawn face to crumple.

“I just don’t get it. Everything seems to make Gart _mad_ these days,” she said, sinking into the chair by the bed. “I can’t seem to do anything right. He keeps yelling at me.”

“Oh, is _that_ what I heard this morning?” Graham tried to get her to smile with him, but she was looking away, twisting the strings of her hood through her fingers like a little net. “Sweetling, can you tell me what he’s yelling about?”

“I don’t wanna say,” she said, her face buried in her knees now as she drew herself up into a ball on the chair. Her voice was muffled. She looked like she was shrinking into herself, like she didn’t want to take up any space at all, like she wanted to hide. She looked so much like Alexander in that moment that Graham felt his breath catch: he could so easily see his son curled up in a corner of the ice cell, shivering and wanting to disappear, certain that he had led the kingdom to destruction just by existing.

"Here, now. Have I ever told you a story about your father?”

* * *

It was snowing both outside and inside Daventry castle.

Outside: that was perfectly normal. It was the end of the year, the lazy autumn finally reaching its end and the snows starting to build up. This was the first proper, heavy storm. Flakes pelted the windows, which were shuttered against the cold. Colorful tapestries had been drawn over the frames, darkening the corridors but keeping the place relatively cozy and comfortable despite the bone deep cold ache seeping out of the exterior stone walls. Wind whistled through the high crenellations, furiously whipping the flakes high against the towers before letting them fall gracefully into heaps that the royal guards would have to shovel out of the way later.

Inside: well, after eighteen years, that was kind of normal, too. Paperwork snowed up in its own sorts of drifts, covering the floor and audience chairs in the throne room. Paperwork that Graham had been ignoring.

He’d been doing okay. Eighteen years was a long time. Or, at least, so he told himself. The hole that Manannan had left when he’d ripped Alexander from his cradle eighteen years ago, stolen the prince of Daventry, leaving the taste of a broken lullaby on Graham’s lips— _that_ hole never filled, but sometimes it was easier to ignore. If he didn’t think about it. And Graham had Rosella to take care of, his beautiful clever daughter, and Valanice to take care of him, his wise, confident wife, and he in turn cared for her, and for his country, to help the land and the people on it grow, tending to it just as the farmers tended the fields. Daventry needed him to be strong.

And he was strong. Mostly.

But, at the end of the year, when the seasons ticked over and the date changed with a finality and a clang...it all came rushing back. The sharp loss. The searches. The failures. Again and again, the failures. Eighteen years come and gone and nothing to show for them. The wizard had just vanished from the earth with his captive as far as the royal family could tell.

Somehow, at the end of every year, Graham’s arms felt weak, and his head ached, and his heart hurt. Even though Valanice understood, even though she held him close and they wept together for what they had lost, around them the demands of the kingdom kept endlessly pressing. After eighteen years, they had to finally accept that Alexander would never come home.

Rosella, his dear sweet princess daughter, carried them through the winter seasons. She learned closely from her tutors, always asking why the kingdom was doing something one way and not doing something another way. She had suitors to meet, plans to make. She, more than the council, more than the guards, more than anyone, seemed to keep Daventry on track when the year ended and the next year (the next year of failure) began. When Graham felt at a loss, overwhelmed (how could he lead a country when he couldn’t even protect his family), Rosella picked up some of the loss.

She had started attending council meetings too young. At first, it had been cute, even a little funny, to see her golden hair bobbing at the table. She had carried a stack of heavy addenda books to her chair herself so that she could sit on top of them and stare imperiously over the councilors. Graham hadn’t the heart to tell her to leave, and she made her attendance a habit. She started figuring processes out, and over the years she started to offer tolerable ideas, and then impressive ones. Sitting at council so young, so fanciful and creative, she was able to twist policy with fantasy with abandon. Without the careful thought that adults had to put into every sentence. It gave her wild confidence. Planted ideas in her head that Graham was mildly sure weren’t exactly princess-like.

But after all, the Cracker family was new to royalty. Who was to say what a Cracker Princess should be?

It wasn’t fair, perhaps, like it was taking away part of her childhood. But Rosella was determined to do what she wanted, and what she wanted was to be a part of Daventry in every single way like her father. Ruling and adventuring in almost the same breath. She went to council, and then she went tree climbing. And then she came to council the next day with her arm in a sling after daring to climb too high. Royal Guard Number One despaired, unable to keep her in check.

But this year was different. She would be turning eighteen soon. Eighteen was an important age. Eighteen was the age Graham had joined the royal knighthood of Daventry, found his path, changed his future.

Eighteen.

She was distracted, and understandably. She was going for walks more and more often out in the tangled forest paths. Sometimes the family came with her, especially in the springtime when the new year’s fear wore away and fresh life started poking out from the cold dirt. Although, her birthday (her twin Alexander’s birthday) was in the spring, and that brought its own pain.

She was probably on a walk somewhere now, Graham thought. He wandered through the sheaves of paperwork piled high as his nose in some places, flipping a sheet here, reading one there, sticking another in his cloak pocket for closer examination later. He wished he was with her too, with Valanice at his side, breathing that crisp Daventry winter chill.

He daydreamed about the route. The promise of hot chocolate and snowberry pie from Wente’s bakery, maybe a new order of cozy woolen socks and blankets from Acorn to stave off the chill, with a detour to Amaya’s warm smithy to sit by the forge and talk about the latest order of rust-resistant armor on order for the royal guards. And then, maybe, by himself, a longer turn by the old well, past the plaque commemorating a brave knight lost, listening to the crunch and crackle of snow under his boots. Just because. Just in case someone had returned to the underground caverns. A boy (a man, now) with hair as dark as Graham’s had been at that age.

He chased the thought away, settled down in his throne, skimmed another page without reading it, wondered if he could order another cup of cider or if Valanice would swat him for putting more sweets in his rounding tummy. She was here, too, somewhere in the hills of paperwork. It was Valanice who had insisted that they clear some of the work before the year end, who insisted they couldn’t sink into the usual sorrows. She herself had hauled the papers into the throne room rather than his office so that he couldn’t ignore them. She would give him a solid (albeit playful) smack if she caught him with one of Wente’s oversweetened ciders. Maybe later.

“Dad?”

Rosella was back from her walk. She had dragged in some boy with her, some scruffy teen half covered in frozen mud, with snowflakes melting in his hair. The lad was staring at the throne, at the crown on the pedestal nearby, at the magic mirror (fuzzy and dark these last eighteen years as though cursed, although Graham realized with a sudden start that the colors had returned to it sometime recently when he hadn’t been paying attention). The boy was swaying dizzily. He looked exhausted, poor thing. Graham stood, stuffing the addenda back in his cloak pocket. “Welcome, young man, to Daventry Castle.”

“Dad?” Rosella repeated. Her voice cracked.

Valanice’s head poked up from somewhere in the stacks, like a rabbit in a burrow. “Oh! You look dead on your feet, dear boy. Might we offer you some tea, or maybe even a blanket?” She struggled out of the snowdrifts of paper, dress catching on piles and pulling them after her in little avalanches.

“D-Dad?”

That one...that wasn’t Rosella speaking. That was...the boy. The scruffy filthy lost looking...eighteen-year-old boy...with raven black hair....

The smile froze on Graham’s lips, faded. His heart beat in his ears so hard that it _hurt,_ that he couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t hear the paper sliding out of its heaps as he knocked it over in his haste to get by, couldn’t hear his footsteps pounding over the carpet, couldn’t hear the sudden burbling laughter pouring out of his own mouth, couldn’t hear Valanice’s shriek and scramble over the rustling, slippery sheets, couldn’t hear Rosella’s frantic explanation, couldn’t hear Alexander’s voice for the first time in eighteen years.

But he felt the boy in his arms as they went for an embrace. Valanice’s arms wrapped around his own as they gently, so gently, afraid of crushing the boy, afraid of frightening him away like a bird, like a ghost, like a dream, held him together.

Alexander squirmed under their grip after a few seconds, apparently not used to contact no matter how soft, and the family backed away, gave him space, let him breathe, and they all stared at each other, unable to think, unable to talk.

“I think...I’m back,” Alexander said, and then his knees buckled beneath him and he went down in a heap, and the whole family reached out and caught him, and everything was different and everything had changed, but the weather didn’t pay any attention, and the snow fell even harder, swirling into drifts and making the royal guards, as unaware as the weather, sigh and clutch their shovels.

* * *

Days whirled past relentlessly.

Questions, answers, suspicions. Joy, relief, apprehension, fear. No one knew quite what to do. This was unprecedented.

Graham and Valanice hovered anxiously over the boy as he regained his strength. They were impossible to tear away from his bedside, huddled together while the boy slept, fielding more questions from staff and citizens themselves than the boy himself answered. Valanice even took to strapping her old short sword around her hip as though she would have to take up some defense of him (from Manannan, or goblins in the night, or assassins, who could say?). But the more the color returned to the boy’s sallow cheeks the more he looked like his parents. The nervous whispers in the halls about imposters faded away.

“As though I wouldn’t know myself,” Valanice fretted, twirling the ends of her hair on her fingers. “Completely unfounded rumors.”

“Yes, but they don’t know you as well as I do,” Graham said, and he kissed the tip of her nose.

Once he was deemed well enough to talk, Alexander answered everything posed to him, though often without the detail they sought. He said where he had come from (Llewdor) and how he had gotten to Daventry (hidden amongst the crates and baskets of a pirate ship). He said what he had been made to do (keep house for the wizard), but he wouldn’t explain more, and no one wanted to push him.

Except on one detail, a detail that hovered over their heads like a black cloak. The most important detail.

“Will the wizard be coming back?” Royal Guard Number One pressed. He still remembered the attack, still remembered the violence. The fear of that night, and of all nights after.

“If he does, he’ll have a hard time doing much more than scratching,” the prince replied. And he didn’t (or maybe couldn’t) explain more than that. Not yet. No1 seemed frustrated, but a sharp glance from Graham made him subside, for now.

Alexander—sometimes he responded to his name, more often he didn’t, still used to that Gwydion name Manannan had forced on him—was quiet, and tried to take up as little space as possible. But he seemed to want to be helpful. As soon as he was allowed to leave his sickbed, he started searching for chores. He was often found outside trying to feed the chickens, and the servants had once caught him pawing through the broom closet looking for a bucket and mop.

“You don’t have to earn your place here,” Valanice told him gently. She reached out as though she wanted to sweep his unruly forelock, so like her husband’s bouncy curls, out of his eyes, but she held back when he flinched ever so slightly.

“Of course not, Ma’am—er, Mom. Still, though, do you think they need help sweeping the throne room?”

At his first presentation to the public, hastily gathered together as a means to silence rumors still floating around the kingdom, he stood uncomfortably next to his family, shifting awkwardly and blushing at the attention, candlelight glinting off his wary eyes. He ducked out at the first moment possible. No one saw him again for the rest of the night—he was good at finding little nooks and alcoves and burying himself in them, entirely out of sight.

Rosella, though, was determined. The Feys had brought Alexander hot chocolate during his days spent recovering from that terrible sea voyage, and while Alexander wouldn’t admit it, she could tell that he loved it. One chilly evening not long after the presentation, she invited Wente to the castle kitchens. She helped him mix up a fresh batch, getting melty chocolate chunks _everywhere_ in the process (accompanied by No1’s barely muffled groans of annoyance when he walked past and saw chocolate halfway up the walls). She plonked two steaming mugs on a tray, covered them to keep them hot, and went in search of her brother.

 _Always searching, even after he’s been found_.

As it happened, he was in his room.

It was a lovely room, near hers. It was always meant to be his, but it had sat sad and empty and dusty for eighteen years. They’d swept it, cleaned it, and let him have it as a blank canvas to do as he wished with. Which...he hadn’t done much. Guest rooms were richer with cozy decor than the crown prince’s room.

She knocked gently, pushed open the door, and found her brother kneeling on the floor by the bed, looking at something. He twisted to face her, shoving whatever it was behind him, yanked the bedspread down, smiled unevenly. Fear gleamed in his eyes. She leaned sideways, peering around him. A scarf trailed out from beneath the bed.

“Isn’t that the scarf Acorn made you?” she asked.

“Is what?” Alexander said with false cheerfulness. He kicked out behind him, and the scarf vanished under the bed.

“Are you hiding it? You don’t have to, I’ve seen it, it’s a nice one. He makes tons of them, says it helps him relax. You should wear it, it’ll be warm.” She put the tray on the (bare) desk and knelt beside him. She reached forward under the blanket, not actually bothering to look where she was reaching, and he made no move to stop her.

But instead of the scarf, her fingers felt something hard. A box? She gripped it, tugged it, but it was stuck, so she pulled harder. It popped free and caused an avalanche of clattering, rattling, dinging noises under the bed.

She glanced at Alexander, who now looked hopelessly guilty, and studied the box in her hands. It held a silver inkwell and quill, delicately engraved with looping vines. “Normally, people put these on their desk,” she said.

“Do they? I mean. Of course they do. Because they’re normal people. And I’m a normal person, too.”

Rosella pushed the blanket aside, revealing a veritable treasure trove. Gifts glittered in the candlelight, things the kingdom had cheerfully given to its lost prince. Welcome home cards, and cups, and papers, and embroidered pillows, and small tapestries, and hats and gloves, and a cloak, and an ornate dagger, and pressed flowers from warmer times, and other odds and ends that didn’t seem to have a use except in some esoteric way that only Alexander understood. His crown was under there, too, a slim golden circlet he was supposed to wear during official occasions but could otherwise be ignored. She dropped the blanket, hiding the inventory again.

Alexander was twisting his fingers together. “Please, don’t tell...I...”

Rosella took his hand in hers. It was cold. She pulled him so that he sat on the bed next to her, and then she pressed one of the hot chocolate mugs into his shaking fingers. Then, ever so carefully, she leaned against him. Lightly, so he could shrug away if he didn’t want her to touch him. He tensed, and then, just as carefully, leaned back, so that they propped each other up. The twins sipped their hot chocolate together. The torches in the hall snapped and popped, but otherwise the room was quiet.

Once the mugs were empty, Rosella said, “I can help you decorate, if you like. There’re some nice tapestries under there. It’ll be warmer in here with them up. If you don’t like the designs, I can help you swap them.”

Alexander didn’t say anything. He held his empty cup in both hands, swirling the dregs of chocolate.

She stuck her finger in the bottom of her own mug, dragged it through the remnants, and licked it away. Alexander shyly did the same, and then smiled. The first one she’d seen from him, she was sure. His eyes were still a little uneasy, a little guarded and suspicious, but he nodded. “I would like that. It does get a bit cold up here.”

“I think I saw a blanket from Acorn under there, too,” she said. “Maybe we could get that, if you want. It might be more comfortable in here with it.”

Alexander hesitated, then reached under the bed and pulled out the box with the inkwell in it. “And you can show me where to set this up? Like I’m supposed to, like a normal person.”

“Normal in this castle is relative,” she said, putting her hand on top of the box. “It can go anywhere you like. Which can include your desk.”

He thought about it, and then nodded. “That makes the most sense for it. On the desk. And. And, maybe...we can put out the pillows.” He swallowed and backtracked, glancing at the door as though expecting someone to be watching, judging, ready to take away his few treasures again. “Um. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I think that would be a nice idea. Are you still okay with putting up tapestries tonight?”

“Um. Could...?” he stopped, looked down.

“Could?” she prompted.

“Could we have another hot chocolate, first, and then...you help me pick out the right ones?”

“Absolutely.”


	2. Footsteps

Alexander had met the villagers and royal knights, but Graham wanted more than ballroom politeness and hastily muttered, “yes, I’m fine, lovely to meet you”s. He wanted them to be comfortable with each other. His son and his citizens. He was eager to show Alexander all that Daventry had to offer. Almost as soon as Alexander was able, Graham started hovering and gently steering him toward walking the paths with him, to explore what was theirs together. To actually get to know each other.

Even in winter, Daventry glittered. Perhaps even more so in winter, what with the ice in the tree branches and the crunchy snow glimmering in the sunlight. The little waterfalls that cascaded over the rocks in the spring froze into twisted natural sculptures, shards sharp as goblin spears. The air was crisp and clear enough that you could hear a twig snap halfway through the forest.

Alexander dutifully pulled his scarf up higher around his ears and trooped behind his father, silent but observant. Graham chattered to fill the empty air between them, pointing out this place or that.

“Starberries grow here in the late autumn—it's like constellations in the trees. And you won’t believe how loud the frogs in that pond in spring are. You'll hear them from the castle on clear nights. Most of the birds have migrated, but wait until they come back. The sounds they make in the early summer mornings before that golden sun properly comes up over the hills…. Oh, and this path, this one leads to a gorgeous lookout. It’s icy now, but maybe in a couple days we might be able to try it, and you can see the whole valley. It’ll look like it’s been dipped in sugar now, and in the summer the lavender fields make the whole valley purple.”

He desperately tried to paint his kingdom in all its colors for his son. Like he could wrap up the whole thing up as a gift. His son listened and nodded and made occasional noises to let Graham know he was listening, and that was about it.

The first couple walks were the same. Graham babbled endlessly, pressing down his unease that he was being annoying and overbearing. At night, he confessed his apprehension to Valanice, and they talked long into the night together. She insisted that what he was doing was helpful. “He comes back with such a rosy blush in his cheeks.”

“It’s windchill,” Graham fretted, crumpling his cloak in his hands.

“He’s _happy_ ,” she said. “Well. Happier. I think. Don’t stop. It’s important for him to see and to hear. But don’t forget to give him space. I know how much you can talk about Daventry when you get started. I know how much you love it. But...give him room.”

The walks continued, and Graham kept himself quiet as much as he talked. Alexander, when he noticed the lengthy pauses, seemed all the more nervous, as though he was expected to fill the silences. And that made him jumpy. But Graham didn’t expect things, just cautiously helped move the conversation forward. It was a bit like trying to help one of the nervous courtiers speak, he decided. He might not know how to talk to a son, but he knew how to talk to his citizens, and while that might not be a long-term solution, at least at first, at least for now, it might help.

And it did.

Alexander, gently coaxed by Graham, started to talk. Not about the past, not yet. But about their present. Started to ask about where they were going. Wanted to risk the icy overlook to see the valley spread below them like a frosted painting. Wanted to know where people lived, what they did. As he talked, Graham realized how _starved_ the boy was for information. He had spent his life locked in Manannan’s grasp, watching the world go by from a distance, and while he was clever and sharp, he simply didn’t _know._ So Graham showed him everything.

* * *

“What do you think that is?” Alexander pointed down the path.

Graham leaned around a bend in the trail to see what Alexander had found. “Looks like a scarf.”

Alexander fidgeted with his own scarf. “I bet whoever dropped it is cold.”

Graham knelt to pick it up. It was well crafted, a bright green that positively glittered against the slushy path. It had snowed earlier (it seemed to be snowing more often this winter, each day bringing another flurry of flakes), and there were all sorts of tangled footprints crisscrossing each other. Graham hadn’t been paying them much mind before—it was a road, there were footprints in the snow. Not exactly something to write a fantasy novel about.

But now he looked a little more carefully, looked at the size of the tracks. Most were blurred, but he had an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. They almost looked like children’s footprints, but he remembered dark caves, ropes, salamanders, and a gut-punch sense of fear rippled down his spine for an instant. His head snapped up, searching the trees for any additional signs of the goblins he knew were out there.

In the distance, now that he was paying attention, he could hear something hammering, very faintly. The twenty-something, newly crowned king in the back of his head immediately decided the goblins were building cages to take the villagers again. The fifty-something established king told himself to stop exaggerating and assuming the worst. The twenty-something king muttered that inattentiveness was how they’d been captured in the first place. The fifty-something king didn’t actually have an answer to that.

Graham glanced at his son—but if there were goblins out there, and if they did mean harm, it wouldn’t be safe to send the prince back to the castle on his own. And Graham couldn’t leave the sound uninvestigated.

“Come with me, but quietly,” Graham said, motioning Alexander down the path, following the goblin tracks.

The hammering got louder. As they walked, though, Graham realized what it was. Not goblins, at least not in this exact instance. Someone was hammering signs into trees. Brightly colored sheets of paper lined the path. Wanted signs, for stolen socks. They rounded the corner and found the source of the hammering and the sheets.

“Aaah, Acorn,” Graham said, relief sparking through his tense shoulders. “Having trouble?”

“Someone raided my stock,” the knight growled, thumping his hammer against the nail in the tree, lodging the sign firmly. The tree had a ring of impact in it from the weight of the hammer. He had blue and green paint streaking his armor from painting the signs in an angry hurry. “Not so much as a single glove left behind.”

“I think I know who.”

“I _knew_ it! That rival craft shop across the river, right? _Knitwits_ or whatever they’re called? Buncha nitwits. I knew it. Mafia creeps. I’m gonna lodge a formal complaint with the royal guards. Trying to button in on my service area, how _dare_ they?”

“No, not them,” Graham said, and offered the scarf. Acorn gently took it, brushing the dirt off it, looking all the more upset about its condition. “Goblins, I think,” Graham continued. “There’s a whole bunch of their tracks just up the lane.”

Acorn seemed taken aback. “No. Really? They haven’t caused trouble for decades. They’ve kept to themselves. Why would they be stirring up trouble again?”

“Good question,” Graham said. “I intend to find out. Something must have happened.”

Instinctively, both men turned and looked at Alexander. Alexander’s eyes widened and he shrank back, stepping into the shade of a tree and tripping over an upraised root hidden in the snow.

“Possibly,” Graham said, mostly to himself. “I wonder if an audience with the goblin king would be useful.” He realized what his mouth had gone off saying and froze, imagining himself down in the goblin tunnels again, those bleak roads he had once trekked as a prisoner, to keep that appointment. He shook his head, scaring the image away. “I’ll deal with that later. For now, we’ll notify the royal guards and let the rest of the villagers know. I’ll head back to town now.”

“Would you take this back to Amaya if you’re going that way?” Acorn asked, holding the hammer out. “I ran out of signs, but I’m gonna go look around, and I promised I’d get that back to her quick.”

Graham was about to protest, about to suggest it wasn’t safe, and then remembered who he was talking to. The strongest knight Daventry had to offer, and surprisingly deadly with a pair of knitting needles. “You be careful,” he said, grinning. “Don’t scare them too badly or anything if you find them. I’d hate to look bad in front of the goblin king.”

Acorn laughed, and then wandered further down the path into the forest, leaving Graham holding a surprisingly heavy hammer and Alexander shivering with wary uncertainty.

“Would you like to go into town with me?” Graham asked. “If you want to go back to the castle, we can do that too, and then I’ll go on to the town myself.”

“Do you...do you think I’m really...the cause of something?” Alexander asked, his voice hardly audible.

Graham was going to flippantly answer, but the look on his son’s face drew him up short. He put the hammer down— _stars it was heavy, what did Amaya want it for—_ and stood beside Alexander. The cold wind had picked up again, and the threat of a storm was blowing in from the west (always from the west these days, so odd, when winter storms normally blew from the north over the mountains). They drew closer together as a screen from the chill.

“Truly, I don’t think it’s anything you did,” Graham said, after a pause. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or unwanted. Daventry has a long and unsettling history with the goblin kingdom, and we were thinking of that more than anything else.”

“Unsettling history?” Alexander asked. He still looked nervy, a deer startled and ready to run, but that eternal curiosity about everything, so delightful in the Cracker family, was roused.

“It’s...you might not want to hear it,” Graham said, uneasy as he looked ahead to where this conversation might go. “It’s a story about goblins...kidnapping all the villagers. And me. They took me. I don’t...it might...” _It might trigger your own memories,_ were the unspoken words. _It might ruin everything, to hear this story._

But Alexander perked his head up, looked toward his father with surprise. And maybe some respect. “What happened? Did you...escape? By yourself?”

“Not completely by myself,” Graham said. “I had help from the villagers. But, yes, we rescued ourselves.”

“I had to rescue myself, alone,” Alexander whispered, so softly Graham wondered if he had been meant to hear it or not. It was the first time Alexander had voluntarily offered any detail regarding what had happened to him. “I...” his voice faded to nothing, and then, in _almost_ a normal volume, like he was trying to force himself to speak, “Would you tell me what happened? If...if you’re okay with that.”

With a kind smile, Graham said, “Yes, I can tell you what happened. Would you like to walk back to town with me while I do? We’ll keep a bit warmer if we move. It was a summer evening, then, but the rain was endless. You’ll get a sense for how monsoon season is in July.” And he unraveled the story about what had happened to him just a few short months after he’d been crowned. How he’d been ambushed by goblins, hauled underground, locked away, and what had happened next.

They hadn’t gotten far into the story by the time they reached the town. Graham had told this tale many times, and it always seemed to get a bit longer with each telling. Real life details fuzzed into something with more defined story structure, tugging wrinkles into out into a proper narrative’s smoothness, with highs and lows that seemed effortless to tell. Privately, though, he knew the raw edge of fear occasionally jangled and caught him off guard at unexpected moments, especially on certain lightning-struck nights when he was feeling tired and edgy. Sort of like catching his arm on a jagged nail in the dark.

But now, in the weak sunlight and the sparkling snow and the crisp air, it was light and easy to tell. He was just explaining about the cure-all potion he would need to restore Bramble’s fading health when they walked through the town gates and found Bramble herself shoveling snow off her front step.

“Ahh, Majesties,” she chirped, sweeping low into a bow, shovel held at attention and dripping slush back onto her stoop. “Lovely day for the moment, though I think you should go inside if that storm keeps heading our way.” She thumbed meaningfully at the clouds racing toward them, chasing the last scraps of sunlight away. “Always a joy to see you in town. Anything in particular you’re up to?”

“Bramble, you haven’t noticed anything strange lately, have you?” Graham asked, ignoring pleasantries.

She hesitated, a little put off by his haste. She wrapped her gloved fingers in her snow-crusted apron strings, considering. “Noticed anything? Acorn went off in a huff this morning, but I’m afraid he’s often in a huff in the mornings. Rather a knight owl. But...no, I can’t say that I’ve noticed anything strange, no more particularly than usual. Is there something I ought to be watching for?”

Graham glanced at the roof—goblins had crowded it once, pounced him flat. It was empty now, except for the snow. It was building up pretty high. He wondered if he should order the royal guards down to help clear the rooftops. It wouldn’t do anyone any good for the shingles to crack under the strain, especially when winter was only getting started. With more snow on the way some of these older structures might warrant a little extra care this year.

He couldn’t dance around the issue. “Bramble, I’m afraid there might be an upsurge in goblin activity.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth, abandoned shovel falling into a snow-covered shrubbery. Of all the villagers, she had been most affected by what had happened, had been very pregnant and very sick for most of her captivity. “You can’t be serious, Majesty.”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, but I have some pretty solid suspicions. I don’t think they’ll do anything. The treaties are still being upheld as far as I know, and Manny is...apparently indisposed.” He glanced at Alexander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, although he was playing with his scarf uneasily, too. “I don’t want to cause alarm. I only want everyone to be a little careful. Maybe don’t walk through the forests alone right now, not until we straighten this out.”

“Of course. Did you tell everyone else?”

“Acorn knows, but I haven’t seen anyone else yet. I’m being proactive. They hurt the town first, last time.” He looked at the worry cracking her normally sunny features and smiled warmly, reaching out and taking her hands. “It isn’t something to worry too much about, yet. They like causing mayhem, remember? Stealing scarves seems like just the sort of trouble they would love. I would recommend caution, of course, but don’t panic. We’ll take care of it before it gets dangerous.”

Relief softened her face. “Come inside, then, lad, let’s get you warmed up. King Graham, something hot to drink?”

“You know you don’t have to call me king,” he said, gently, for the thousandth time.

“I know, Majesty. Still. Cocoa?”

“Let me get this to Amaya first,” he said, hoisting the hammer in his hand to show it off, almost losing his balance as he misjudged its weight. “I’ll stop by after.”

Alexander made to follow Graham, but Graham gently shooed him toward the bakery with Bramble. Overhead, the garlands the villagers had used to decorate the town for the season swayed in the increasing wind.

Amaya’s shop always smelled of hot metal and oil, a tangy greasy feeling in the air that felt like sparks were going to crackle off his arms. Graham rapped his knuckles against the counter’s scraped and battered wood until Amaya shouted from her workroom, “In a minute, hold on to your crown!”

Bemused, he leaned back on his elbows, examining the array of weapons nailed to the walls. She eventually came out a side door, wiping her hands on a rag tucked into her skirt. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked.

“No one else knocks that pattern. Sounds like a song, the way you do it. Ridiculous, dreamy. Like a dopey lullaby. What’s up?”

“Got your hammer.” He dropped it onto the counter with a thump. He winced, having added yet another dent to the rest, but Amaya scooped it up as though it weighed nothing. “Acorn said you needed it back quick. What are you working on?”

“Something for Rosella,” Amaya said.

“Um. Something I should know about?” He still remembered the flaming poisoning raging sword of doom fiasco.

“New game board. Faster version of the home game Battle of Wits—the arrows hurt if they hit the players, ha! Adds some extra tension to rounds. Gotta hammer the board together, and the weight on this hammer in particular is perfect. Wanted to get it to her today if I could. I think she plans on teaching her brother how to play. Speaking of, he here?” She had pulled out said game while talking, hammering the top pieces with wild, ear-ringing abandon.

Graham flinched back from the clanging blows. “He’s with the Feys.”

“That hot chocolate’s gonna fatten him up. Good. Kid needs it.”

“There was something else, Amaya,” Graham said, trying to get a word in edgewise as she delivered a series of ringing whacks to the pieces.

“Has to do with Acorn, I bet. He was in a temper this morning. I mean, he’s always in a temper in the mornings. But he’s usually good at calming down. That bull training or whatever. Not this morning.” Amaya put down the hammer and looked expectant.

“I’m worried the goblins are stirring up trouble again,” he said.

“Ah.” She crossed her arms. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

“I have reason to believe they were in town,” he said, glancing at the shop windows—crusted with snow, hard to see through. Unless you were pressed right against it you wouldn’t see anyone outside. “They stole Acorn’s winter stock. All his scarves and gloves and socks.”

“That might explain why my order of icepicks and chisels has inexplicably gone walking.”

“They’re not arming themselves, do you think?” Graham asked. He could remember spearheads jabbed against his shoulders, could remember the wooden handles slamming against the back of his knees to bring him to their level before they yanked the ropes around his wrists.

“With a chisel? Unless they’re carving some lovely ice swans and bringing them to life with some black magic to attack us, I doubt it. The picks, maybe, but they’ve still got their spears as far as I know, so they don’t need my stuff. This might just be petty thievery. They like that. I never did get my bed back.”

“You didn’t want it back. I did offer to ask.”

“Not worth the effort.” _Or the memories_. “Still. I’ll keep an eye out. We started barring the gates again this year—this winter is colder, have you noticed? It's driving the wedzels into town, looking for warmer hearths to sleep against. If I catch one by my forge there will be hell to pay. But we’ll be more diligent. I’m not sure if the gates were closed last night or not. I assume I can expect a visit from Number One about patrol schedules?”

“As always. Number One likes to keep you involved.”

“Whisper thinks he’s flirting with me.”

“Whisper thinks everyone’s flirting with you.”

Amaya scowled. “Ridiculous. Still. We’ll be watchful. We’ve dealt with this before, and we’ll take care of it now. Don’t worry, Graham.”

“I’m supposed to be telling you not to worry, not the other way around,” Graham said.

Amaya laughed, handed Graham the completed board game (which weighed considerably more than the hammer had) and pushed him out the door. The light had a distinct gray quality to it, now, the clouds pushing into place. After the forge-warmed shop, the incoming storm’s biting chill nipped Graham’s cheeks, and he shrugged deeper into his cowl, shifting it up around his ears while trying not to lose his grip on Rosella’s order. It would be best to head back to the castle now, to get the royal guards involved, before the storm hit. The villagers would warn each other about the possible threat, and Number One and the other guards would soon have the place safely under patrol.

Wente and Bramble were crammed around a table with Alexander when Graham pushed through the door. A couple of early snowflakes also entered with him, though they melted the moment they hit the hot air. Everything tasted like cinnamon and sugar dust, and Wente had lit a large number of candles to keep the darkness at bay.

“It’s not at all like it was under Edward,” Wente was saying cheerfully, dunking a cookie in hot chocolate and getting crumbs all over the tabletop. “Your father is really doing some delightful expansion work. Used to be we’d lose half the lavender crop to rain. The irrigation system he implemented? That alone has done wonders for Daventry.”

“Oh, King Graham, let me get you a cup of something,” Bramble said, pushing to her feet. “Cider? Cocoa? Something a bit stronger? Your nose is five shades redder than usual.”

“The storm is on its way,” Graham said, shifting the board game but looking longingly at the sweet cider tap.

“Yes, but Daventry Castle is no more than ten minutes up the road. Come on, sit. We’ll get you warmed up before you head out. No goblins will want to move in weather like this, so don’t worry about raising alarm yet.”

“They’re armed with winter caps now, though,” Graham said, trying to spin it into a joke. “I’ve seen them in grass skirts—I'll bet they look ridiculous in scarves.”

“Wrapped around their helmets!” Wente accidentally dropped the last of his cookie in his cup and his mustache drooped as he looked forlornly at the soggy remnants.

“Mistletoe on their spears,” Bramble said.

“Wearing bright green gloves,” Alexander offered, quiet, with what _might_ have been the trace of a smile.

They didn’t stay long—the storm truly was impending, and it made Graham anxious to get back home, but they stayed long enough to drain their mugs, to tell some awful jokes about snowmen, and to speculate about what the goblins might actually be up to. Nothing at all was decided, other than perhaps they’d sensed the oncoming worse winter and had decided to prepare in the only way they knew how: thievery.

By the end of their brief ten-minute chat, Bramble didn’t seem nearly as frightened as she had before, and Wente remembered he had a cupcake he wanted to send up with Graham for Royal Guard Number Two’s birthday (it smelled a little bit like syrup). Alexander had to carry the little paper box, as Graham was still struggling with the board game. He wouldn’t tell Alexander what it was, sure Rosella meant it to be a surprise, and mumbled something about it being for dull castle business.

Acorn stomped in right before the royalty left, shaking snowflakes from his cloak and demanding a frosted bear claw—Alexander looked horrified and confused before Wente handed over a specific type of pastry. He told Graham that the royal guards knew about the goblins now. Acorn had run into Numbers One and Two making a loose patrol loop through the forest, and No1 wanted to see him as soon as possible to confirm their strategy.

“Absolutely, on the way,” Graham said, and waved farewell to his friends and his citizens. Bramble and Wente both gave Alexander warm goodbyes, Wente offering a huge goodbye hug and Alexander gently refusing (although he openly smiled when he refused, definitely the first true smile Graham had seen). Acorn sprayed crumbs everywhere but still managed to cough out a dry “see ya,” and then the king and the prince walked back toward the castle, glowing with the contentment of companionship.


	3. The Stories that Really Matter

The storm was bigger than expected. Daventry woke to a fresh blanket of snow at least two feet high in places, and more still on the way. The guards grumbled and manned their shovels.

Rosella and Alexander sat in her room while the snow continued to fall, playing the new and improved Battle of Wits—when Valanice walked past, she could hear them laughing ( _laughing! Her boy, laughing!_ ) and Alexander whimpering in pain as another arrow nicked his thumb. They were playing less to win as they were to hit each other, it sounded like.

_Siblings_.

After a hot lunch, Graham held his usual audience hours. He wasn’t sure if anyone would show up in this weather, but if anything major was impending he needed to know about it. Between the potential goblins and the endless snow, he was sure something would come up. Alexander quietly asked if he might try sitting in, too, to see what Graham did as a king. All those walks had done good, it seemed, sparking his curiosity. Graham was absolutely delighted, stocking the lad with blankets and hot drinks and making sure he had a good view in case people came.

And they did. Crusted with snow, peeling slushy gloves and scarves from their hands and faces, they came to make their reports. They were uneasy about the weather, primarily. It was too early in the season for this sort of thing, and Graham was quite sure it wasn’t going to ease up as the winter went on—his people felt the same.

“I just don’t know if we have enough wood stockpiled,” Amaya warned.

“Whisper is happy to collect more, but Whisper isn’t sure about being able to support the _whole_ village,” Whisper added. “But Whisper has been emphasizing arm day, so Whisper can do it.”

Graham considered. They had some options: they should definitely cancel the annual huge marshmallow roast, that was easy enough. Perhaps they could also thin out some of the encroaching trees on Pillare Hill, if she would be amenable to that suggestion. She’d complained once about how gloomy her hill was starting to look, and clearing back some of the branches might brighten it again. He made a note to talk to her about it as soon as possible, told Whisper he wouldn’t need to do everything himself, and promised they could certainly keep warm for a good long while together no matter what.

The fear about the village roofs groaning under the snow was valid—one of the older houses on the edge of the wall had snapped under the pressure, timbers shedding snow inside the rooms. No one had been hurt, but Graham immediately dispatched a team of guards to clear the rest of the rooftops _now_ , and invited the displaced villagers to stay in the castle.

Nervous questions about goblins were repeated again and again, and Graham listened patiently to each new worry. Concerns about consumables were constant. If they were stealing clothes, might they steal food next? What might happen if the flour ran low? If they dug their tunnels into the vegetable cellars? Graham ordered another fully updated inventory done of the castle’s holdings, and walked the villagers through the plans No1 had put together, careful to point out what each villager would find most relevant.

Bramble was especially apprehensive about the wedzels trying to break into town to escape the chill in the forests. She’d heard them howling in the forest in the night, thought she heard them prowling the streets outside her shop. Graham would have the gates reinforced and extra torches placed around the paths. He explained that they tended to scare away from blue-flamed light in particular; he had learned that in the knight tournament all those years ago. She smiled, satisfied with the response.

Hours whirled past like snowflakes. Graham stretched out the knots in his back between petitioners, glancing at Alexander to make sure he was comfortable. He was curled on the bench like a cat, watchful, with an unreadably blank expression as he absorbed everything his father did. Every word he spoke, every movement of his hand.

They were prepared. Daventry was capable of surviving even the bleakest winters, Graham knew. But it wouldn’t be easy, and the wary looks on his citizens’ faces told him they knew it wouldn’t be, either. And if the second half was worse than this first, then they would want to start getting ready now.

“What did you think?” Graham asked later, breaking open a heel of bread and dipping it in his soup. No standing on ceremony or manners on a frozen night when there was no one but his family around him. The fireplace crackled and snapped behind him, pouring blessed heat into the informal dining hall.

“Interesting,” Alexander said. “You’re...very patient.” The unspoken words: _Unlike Manannan._

“I’ve got to be,” Graham said. “You’ll hear a lot of the same questions again and again, but you’ve got to give them all your full attention like they’re the first person to have brought it up. It helps them trust you, shows that you’ll listen, that you’ll care. I’m not sure every other kingdom works like that, but this one does.”

“Still,” Valanice said distractedly, swirling her spoon through her bowl, “this is the strangest winter I can remember. I wonder what the Hobblepots would have had to say about this—maybe it’s like this every hundred years?”

“They weren’t that old,” Graham protested. “Still. I’ll have a look through the history books. If there’s anything like this, it’ll be mentioned somewhere, I’m sure.” _And maybe give me some clue about what might happen next._

“It’s good for snowmen,” Rosella said, mouth full of bread. “Packs together really well.”

“Hard to shovel,” No2 groaned, wincing, as he carried a pitcher of water around the table. “I’m going to feel that for a week.”

“Someone needs to make sure you stay in shape,” No1 said drily from his post near the door.

Graham smiled. “I asked Olfie about hiring him and Pillare to scoop out the main roads. That should free up the guards for patrols and other tasks.”

“I can’t imagine she was best pleased at that.” No2 gently put the pitcher back on the serving board.

“As compensation, she wants the castle to fund an order with Acorn for a new winter cap and matching gloves. She wants embroidery. Birds, is what I heard last. She keeps changing her mind. It’s going to take ‘til the end of winter to get it done, Acorn says.”

“Her hands are as big as he is!”

“It’s a good challenge, is what I told him,” Graham said. “He’s even looking forward to it, I think.”

Outside, the snow continued to drift.

* * *

“Alexander.”

He didn’t look at Rosella. His chin was in his hands, and he was staring out the window with a look of intense thoughtfulness, mulling over something. His lips were moving as he thought, but he made no sound.

“Alexaaaander.”

Still nothing.

Very quietly, not sure it would work or should even be said: “Gwydion?”

He instantly leapt to his feet and tumbled into a haphazard bow, all awkward limbs and nervous babble, “Yessir, sorry, sir, what can I do—oh. Um. Sorry, hi. Sorry.”

“Oh no, no, no, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I didn’t think that you’d...I’m so sorry. But. Look, Alexander, are you okay? You’ve been sitting there for at least twenty minutes. I’ve walked past twice and tried to talk to you each time and you haven’t noticed.”

It had felt like just a minute or two. “Fine.”

“You’ve got this look on your face, though. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yes.”

She leaned against the bookcase. “What’s the question?”

“Sorry?”

“You always have some question about Daventry when you get that look. So, what is it? I bet I know the answer.”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m trying to figure out what this means,” he admitted, and he thumped his fist into his open palm. “The king...uh, Dad does it a lot. Especially before audience hours. I just...is it some spell, or something?” It didn’t _feel_ magical, and he was quite sure he would be able to tell, but maybe he had missed something.

“Oh! No, no, that’s an Achaka salute.”

“A...a what? Ah—chaka?”

“You’ve been here for weeks and you haven’t heard that story yet? Dad’s slipping. Here, let me introduce you.” She went to the entrance hall, Alexander lagging behind her a few paces. “This,” she said, gesturing widely, “is Achaka.”

Alexander looked around, but the only person here was Royal Guard Number Two standing post by the door, and Alexander was quite sure his name was Matt. Not that he was supposed to call the royal guards by their real names. Rosella had told him everyone’s names but had also mentioned that No1 was pretty big on formal protocol, which made Alexander immediately want to forget them so he couldn’t make a mistake. Regardless. Not Achaka. He looked again, and then realized. “The statue?”

“Well, the real Achaka died ages ago. Waaay back when Dad first came to Daventry. They met, and Achaka helped him get through the Knight Tournament that Dad needed to win if he wanted a chance at being king. So, they were looking for an eye, ‘cos Number One said they had to have one for their entrance tickets, and Achaka hadn’t come back to turn his in, and there was this dragon, and...” she stopped, and looked at the statue. “This is a boring way to tell the story. Dad does it so much better.”

“Pardon me, Princess Rosella,” No2 said, leaning forward. “I think I know a better way to tell it.”

Ten minutes later, Rosella, Alexander, and No2 were tearing the sitting room apart, putting cushions here and there to represent different cave entrances, building up a little maze of small spaces, all the while explaining the backstory of what was going on to Alexander. Rosella handed him a decorative bowl and said, “This can be a glowing mushroom, so you can put that wherever you want.”

Royal Guard Number One said from the door, “What are you doing?” Alexander froze, almost dropping the bowl in his sudden nervousness.

“Oh! Number One!” Rosella clapped her hands. “Excellent! Will you help us?”

No1 stared at the mountain of pillows they’d stacked precariously by the window. It was teetering madly, and looked like breathing on it wrong would knock the whole thing over. “Help?”

No2 got to his feet. He’d been tying curtain pulls together to make one long cord. “We need you to be Achaka,” he said.

“...I’m sorry, I must repeat myself. What are you _doing_?”

“Reenacting the dragon attack for Prince Alexander. We wanted to explain what an Achaka salute was, and this is a better way of doing it, we thought. More...emotional.” No2 surveyed the pillow pile, and then began climbing.

“Indeed. And you want me to play...”

No2 swayed to keep his balance while tying the rope he’d made to the top of the window frame. “Achaka, yeah. You don’t have to say anything, or really do much. Except maybe you can say ‘Achaka’ if you really want to get into it. Otherwise, you can just stand there looking stern. Pretend to shoot an arrow. That’s probably about it for the most part.”

“Right. And who are you playing in this...?”

“Young Graham, of course.” No2 slid down the pillow mountain. “For my bubbly and likeable personality and terrific bouts of energy.”

“I’m the dragon,” Rosella interjected.

“Of course you are,” No1 said.

“Raaar.” She made a face and held her fingers up like claws, then broke down giggling, enjoying herself tremendously.

No2 clasped his gauntlets together and made a pleading sort of noise. “Please, Number One, it’s for the young prince’s sake. We wouldn’t ask you otherwise.”

“Yes, Number Two, you would. And have. And I refused last time, too.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s for a good cause.”

“The radish eating contest opening ceremony was ‘for a good cause,’ too,” he said, sharply.

“It _was,_ though.”

“Please, Number One,” Rosella added, putting on her brightest diplomatic smile.

Alexander fidgeted with the bowl behind them, watching. There was no way. He’d seen how No1 acted around the other guards. Seen how stiff and stern he was, how dry and sarcastic and...

About ten minutes later, King Graham walked past the room. He froze mid step, then walked backward past the door again, staring at the bizarre tableau in the sitting room. No1 was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, looking like he was regretting every single decision he’d ever made in his life, while Rosella clung to his leg, pretending to bite it. No2 was running across the room holding onto a curtain rope as though he was swinging on it, and Alexander was supervising the whole thing from a pile of cushions in the corner, an audience of one.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Ah, Your Majesty. This...” No1 glanced at the disarray, at the princess clawing at his boot, and said, dry as bone in an unquestionable tone, “Training. We’re trying out a new form of training.”

“Rosella, is that your mother’s green eye makeup all over your cheeks?”

“No, of course not. It’s the lighting in here, it’s very dim,” Rosella said, from around No1’s leg. The room was perfectly lit with that bright, cold, sunshine-on-snow white light, what with the curtains held open with cushions. The curtain ties were all clutched in No2’s hands, a single long cord that looked like a vine in his hands. Or an escape rope.

Graham took a second look, and then dawning realization crossed his face. He grinned. “So, I’m going to guess Number Two is me?”

“Got it in one, Sire,” No2 said cheerfully. “On account of my bubbly and likeable personality and terrific bouts of energy.” (No1 couldn’t quite stop his exasperated sigh.)

“Naturally. I wouldn’t expect anyone else.” Graham looked at Alexander. “Does this... _performance_ make any sense?”

“Um.”

“I think you need a narrator to actually explain what you’re doing to your audience,” Graham said to the three actors. “Shall we take it from the top?” He smiled. “Let me tell you a story. A story about what it means to be brave even when you don’t think you can be, even when you’re facing the biggest threat imaginable. Ready?”

* * *

A castle couldn’t be stuffy. It was huge, with spiraling passages and enormous rooms and high ceilings. It was full of the hustle and bustle of people, but it was easy enough to find quiet little corners and stay away from everyone.

But Alexander still felt hemmed in. As the weeks turned to months, as the calendar spun deeper into winter, it started feeling even more claustrophobic, somehow. Surrounded by choking tapestries and detailed paintings of people he didn’t know and endless rows of doors lining labyrinthian hallways. The walks with the king helped him feel less trapped, but he started slipping out by himself whenever he could. It was weird to have the freedom to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. No one ever stopped him or demanded to know what he was doing. No one ever watched him.

Except...someone was watching him now. He felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck, a sense he’d refined over the years living with...that wizard. He pushed down the forest path a little faster, trying to act uncaring like he figured a prince probably should be. Most of the trails were too snowed under to walk, but someone had been keeping this one fairly clear—he realized he was about to find out who.

“Your form is all wrong,” a voice called out.

Alexander skidded to a stop, slipping in the snow. “I’m...sorry?”

“You’ll never manage to get to a decently paced jog with that sort of biscuit placement. You’ll trip over your toes. You must build up to the more intensive leg days, but if you haven’t got a good form, you’re defeating yourself.”

It was a booming, boisterous, braggy sort of voice. Alexander nervously stepped back a pace. “Have we met?”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten Whisper!” The voice was offended now.

“Oh. Oh!” Usually, Alexander had the shield of the king or his sister to hide behind when one of the Daventry citizens approached. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now, by himself, without their cues. “Sorry. Whisper. Of course.” He clamped his mouth shut again, afraid he was going to do something wrong.

The knight was leaning against a directional signpost. “This is Whisper’s jogging trail,” the knight said, thumbing at the well-trodden path. He had earmuffs on _over_ his helmet, which seemed entirely to defeat the purpose of earmuffs. “Whisper is more than happy to share the traffic, but only if the traffic stays in the correct lane. You aren’t ready for the fast track yet, Prince Alexander. Not with that mediocre run.”

“Oh, please, not...not Prince. I’m just…just Alexander. And I wasn’t actually running,” Alexander said warily. “I was only walking. I can, um. Walk somewhere else, though. Good...good day?” He tried a nervous little half bow and started to creep down the path.

“Aaah, wait, wait, wait!” Whisper said, standing in Alexander’s way. “Come now, if you have forgotten Whisper, then that simply isn’t good! We have yet to exchange tales of bravery, because had you heard such a tale then you could not have forgotten me!”

“I don’t have any tales of bravery, though,” Alexander said, sidestepping into the snow. “It’s, uh, good to see you again, Whisper. I’ll just...”

“But your tale is the bravest of them all,” Whisper said, and now he seemed confused. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Grand escapes, magic, dragons—”

“—there wasn’t actually a dragon. I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking there was a dragon.”

“Oh. But. Dragons add such a spice to a story. Perhaps we should add one.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I can help you pen your tale, if needed,” Whisper offered. “Whisper is good at adding outlandish details that _grab_ your audience’s attention and _whirl_ them through the tale!” He leapt from place to place as he spoke, making elaborate hand gestures, and then added, much more quietly, “Even if the tale isn’t _strictly_ true.”

“I’d really rather not,” Alexander repeated. “Thank you, but another time.”

“Whisper shall be here! Whisper is always here! Unless Whisper is with Amaya, and then Whisper is in town. With Amaya. You understand, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you met the beautiful lady Amaya?” Whisper asked, fully distracted and starting up the conversation again as though they hadn’t just been moving through the niceties of farewell. “She is most delicate. The sweetest flower, the fluffiest cloud, the tallest peak, to be adored. The finest, most talented, most clever lady in all the lands! Her stories shall be trumpeted from the mountaintops! By yours truly, of course,” he added, pointing to himself so hard that his thumb bounced off his chest plate with a metallic ringing sound.

“Delicate,” Alexander repeated, wondering if he was thinking of someone else. Maybe there were two Amayas in town. The one he had briefly met could hammer together an iron gate without breaking a sweat. But maybe there were different types of delicate?

“I shall expect you to carry on her tale as well,” Whisper said earnestly. “A tale must be retold by many to become a legend, and once it is a legend, then it creates immortals, and my dear Amaya shall indeed be an immortal legend! Like me. But first you must hear the stories, since you have not lived them with us. And then we shall work on your own tale.”

Expectations. Stories. Things he didn’t know.

He thought about the story the king had told about Achaka. What that story had meant. Daventry, as far as Alexander could tell, thrived on the power of tales, perhaps in part because of its leader and his delight with words. But Alexander didn’t know any of the stories himself, and he didn’t want to tell the one that he had survived.

The problem was that everyone knew each other so well already. He felt like an intruder crashing in on a story in the third act, an audience member trying to fill in the gaps of a play after they’d missed most of it. 

No one had said anything to him about it yet, but he had felt a weight of expectation settling on his shoulders the moment he’d woken up in that sickbed with his family hovering over him. His family that, incidentally, happened to be royalty. He was heir to a throne he hadn’t even _known_ about until a few months ago. Daventry had been a name written on a map in the wizard’s office with throwing darts embedded in it, and that was about it.

Until now.

Now, he could sense the confidence from its people that he would learn the stories and tend to it, like King Graham did now. That Alexander would continue his father’s legacy. His story.

He had gone outside of the castle to get away from the sense of being tied down, from the tapestries and the paintings and the weight of hundreds of years of leadership. All the stories, endless and complicated and wrapped together and important to its people.

But the expectation of stories had followed him out here, too. Whisper was certain Alexander would listen and understand. The knight was watching him with a puppy’s eagerness, excited to explain why he loved the blacksmith so much, another story to Daventry’s history, another tale that Alexander should already know. That he would have known, if he hadn’t been in Llewdor, been a different person.

There was guilt, and frustration, and a desire to know, all shoved into a box in his mind that he dared not open.

Alexander could probably understand these people and their needs, but Gwydion definitely couldn’t. He didn’t know any good tales. He wasn’t good at playing games. He wasn’t even coordinated, apparently, as Whisper had pointed out. And he was terrified everyone was going to find out that he wasn’t a prince, wasn’t even “just” Alexander, that he was still Gwydion.

After hearing Graham’s story about Achaka, Alexander had gone to the tallest tower he could find in the castle. Standing there, alone, looking out at the snow-covered country, thinking of the expectations that were starting to press on his shoulders, he had tried out the salute. It hadn’t felt like anything at all. It had felt pointless. Graham had said it was supposed to help center you and help you find courage, but he still felt lost and afraid.

If he’d been Prince Alexander, someone who belonged there, maybe things would be different. But Gwydion didn’t deserve the salute. Didn’t deserve to be in Daventry.

Still.

Whisper wanted to tell him a story right now. And enough stories, enough knowledge, could change things. He had taught himself magic and escaped the wizard’s manor. Maybe more stories about Daventry would help him escape Gwydion. And, cautiously, he nodded. He let Whisper tell him another story, and he listened, and he learned.

* * *

Gwendolyn lifted her head. “Grandpa? Did Dad really say all that?”

Graham smiled. “Later, he did mention some conversation with Whisper, and the general gist of it. I confess, I wasn’t there. Storyteller’s discretion, you know.” He sipped a glass of water and waited for her to continue. She had a look on her face that said she was possibly finally ready to explain what had been bothering her earlier.

“It’s just.” She had been sitting on the bed, holding the canopy’s bedpost and running her fingers along the carvings as she listened, but now she slipped down, wandering toward the fireplace. “It’s just. That’s. Kinda what Gart said to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That I don’t belong here.” She sank into the rocking chair and started kicking herself back and forth, back and forth, while Graham blinked, at a complete loss for words for the first time that night. “He said...that I shouldn’t be too comfortable, that I’d be going back to the Green Isles with Dad again soon. I don’t think he meant to be mean about it. I think. I don’t know what I think. I don’t think he likes me in Daventry very much.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Graham said, after a pause. There was anger in his voice, a sharpness that felt too cold for the storytime bedroom.

“Please, don’t!” Gwendolyn said, looking up quickly. “I don’t want him to know that I took it wrong. It was probably just nothing. Just talking.”

_Just shouting, if I remember correctly,_ Graham thought.

“I do belong in the Green Isles, though, he’s right.” She drew her legs up onto the chair, squeezing herself into a little ball, and dropped her head onto her knees again, staring at the floor.

“You belong wherever you want to be, my dear,” Graham said, gently. He cursed his weak knees and broken arm and inability to rise and go to her, like he would have gone to her father. “It can be here, there, or anywhere. We Crackers are pretty good at figuring out who we are and going where we’re needed.”

She hesitated. Then, clearly wanting to go back to the story and stop talking about personal things, she said, “So...what happened after that?”

Graham distractedly pushed away thoughts of his grandson and spread his arms (arm, singular, the other being broken) wide, and said, “The snow kept on falling.” And the story continued.

* * *

“I don’t understand this,” Valanice sighed, standing by the bedroom window and rubbing her arms through her night robe.

As the days faded and weeks stretched, the blanket of snow grew yet deeper. The trolls were making good on their promise to keep the main roads clear, but it was like walking through gray tunnels to get anywhere. Graham felt like his castle tower was an island above puffy clouds. This reminded him of the tower he’d been trapped in with Valanice and...well, Valanice, the two princesses who shared the same name. The day the tower had walked through a cloud and soaked them all had been quite an experience, leaving all three spluttering and shivering and laughing. He missed the warmth of those spring days.

“Maybe the villagers should all come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around her and squeezing her close in front of him, his chin resting on her shoulder as he studied the white expanse. The clouds had broken and the sun was peeking over the horizon, making the whole thing blindingly glittery. But rather than feel cheered by it, Graham felt apprehension in his stomach. The clouds would roll in again, as they had for days. This wouldn’t even begin to melt before another layer would come down. “I don’t want anyone to get snowed in to the point where they can’t take care of themselves.”

“I’m not sure they’ll agree to that,” Valanice said. “That feels like giving up.”

“It’s weather. There’s nothing to fight, and the only puzzle is how we shore up our own supplies,” Graham pointed out. He reached toward the window panes with his free hand, feeling the icy chill against his skin.

“They won’t feel that way, and you know it.”

“Soon, though, I might have to make that decision for them.”

“At least the goblins can’t strike in this,” she said, sighing. “Their escape tunnels are probably all plugged up with snow.”

“Small blessings,” Graham said, and kissed her cheek.

It had been cold (of course it had been, it was winter), but Graham's breath caught as soon as he stepped outside. The chill was so much more than expected, a bone deep ache. Despite the weak sunlight, the cold sank into his chest and made him want to cough. His breath appeared as dragon-smoke, white bellows preceding his every step. He tugged a scarf over his nose, which helped a little bit, and went to find No1.

More than the cold, more than the daily snow: the silence unnerved him most. Graham felt the stillness like a blanket around his ears. The recent threat of goblins had roused up old nightmares, and the silence of his beloved kingdom, normally so crowded with birdsong, squirrel chatter, music, life, even in winter—it reminded him of his goblin cell. Of the shadows and the stillness. Of the fear that laced his every echoing step. Of impossibilities and distress.

Valanice was right: so far, the only good result from this weather was a lack of goblins. There hadn’t been any signs of attack since the missing winter clothes and ice picks. Which meant that Graham hadn’t needed to travel down those tunnels to see the goblin king. At least, not yet. Should another instance happen, Graham knew he would have to set that appointment, and the very idea made his throat threaten to close. But he would do it, if he needed to.

_Stars, I hope I don’t need to_.

“Report, Number One?” Graham said, once he’d found the guard huddled over a cup of tea near the drawbridge. His mittened hands clutched the mug like someone was trying to take it from him, and he was curled over it to hold in every trace of warmth. His earmuffs were slipping.

“Not much to report, Sire. Just snow. Incredibly unexpected and surprising, I’m sure.” No1 sighed, his breath mingling with the steam of his tea and creating a white cloud that instantly froze in his mustache. “I rather think—” He cut himself off and saluted stiffly, “Sir, apologies, the cold makes me forget myself. I was thinking aloud.”

“Feels like?” Graham pressed. No1’s intuition was always sharp and frequently accurate.

“It’s nonsense, hardly worth the effort of saying it. And yet. It feels like something’s _coming_ , Your Majesty. There’s a center to this storm, and it’s getting closer. Which is ridiculous, and I’ll thank you for not repeating it. The sort of fanciful thinking one of the younger staff might have. Who ever heard of menacing weather?”

“Stranger things have probably happened,” Graham said. “I wonder...”

“It’s colder today than it was yesterday. And there’s more snow than there was the day before. Keeping this only between us, Sire, it’s keeping me awake at night wondering if maybe I’m right.”

“You know, I really, _really_ hope you aren’t,” Graham said, and the two men stared out across the snow hiding everything as far as the eye could see.


	4. A Rose Among Thorns

Snow fell, fires burned weakly with a fraction of their usual fuel, and people huddled together for warmth. Alexander’s face was constantly drawn with nervousness—since he couldn’t leave the castle easily due to all the snow, he’d taken to hiding himself in odd corners again like he had in his first few weeks here, apprehensive about...something. Graham worried for his son. Maybe he feared he was somehow to blame for this bizarre storm? It felt like something Manannan would do, if he was even around to do magic anymore after whatever Alexander had done to him.

But it was just weather. Wizard or not, who had magic like this?

A memory stirred. _Hagatha?_

“It’s winter,” Graham said to his own thoughts. “Just winter. It happens.”

“Yes, dear,” Valanice said automatically. She tilted her head back and drained her mug, holding a book over her face with her other hand so she could continue reading at the same time. They were hunting for stories and descriptions of similar weather incidents, and so far they’d come up with…nothing much. There were a handful of droughts, and at least one surprise butterfly migration, but nothing like an eternal, endless winter storm.

The family was picking at breakfast, sitting close around the table. Yet another storm had blown up this morning and was whistling past the windows, making eerie noises as it spun through the crenellations. Alexander was downcast, turning his toast to crumbs more than eating it. Rosella was trying to convince him, without success, to challenge her to another Battle of Wits board game. Graham’s spoon knocked hollowly against his nearly empty mug. The sugar was long dissolved into his tea, which was cold by now anyway. He continued to stir absently, thinking. Planning. With no ideas.

If only there was something to plea to, or something to challenge, but this was _snow._ He had sent messages to the neighboring kingdoms for assistance in food and fuel, but no one had replied yet (if they’d even gotten his messages in the first place). Daventry felt cut off, standing alone. He watched the snowflakes skim almost horizontally across the window.

A flurry of knocks made Graham sit up. “Yes?”

Royal Guards Numbers One and Three entered. Heavy snow tracked behind No3 in wet clumps, a damp line in the carpet showing where she’d walked, and she seemed out of breath and shivering. No1 stood close beside her, at attention but with a certain energy that suggested he was going to reach out and catch her if she wobbled.

“Permission to report, Sire?” he asked, his gaze never leaving his subordinate.

“Granted,” Graham said, surprised. He glanced at his family—they were all staring at the guards, startled by their sudden appearance.

“We apologize for interrupting breakfast, Sire. But we appear to have a new neighbor,” No1 said briskly.

“New…neighbor?” Graham put down his spoon and shifted his chair to give them his full attention.

“Number Three, you may proceed.”

“Permission to speak informally?” she gasped. She had definitely had been running through the snow, which was practically impossible with how thick the drifts were getting out there. It was a wonder she hadn’t twisted an ankle.

“Granted,” No1 and Graham said, almost in unison.

“Okay. I was on standard patrol. In the lavender fields, to the west.” Snow dripped off her shoulders. “I was climbing the hill, you know, the one that overlooks the river? As I climbed the hill, I started getting a prickle in my fingers, through my gloves, like the temperature was dropping fast. And…” she stopped, looking at No1.

“Proceed,” he prompted, but the usual dry edge in his voice softened.

“Sir. At the top of the hill, you can see into the valley. Only. Only, there _isn’t_ a valley anymore.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, who’s ever heard of a floating castle? It’s something out of a story.”

“It isn’t floating now,” No1 said. “It’s definitely landed.”

“Almost on my head,” No3 squeaked, and there was a note of hysteria in her words. No1’s hand rose ever so slightly behind her back to keep her steady.

“Wait. Are you telling me a castle just…appeared? In my field?” Graham went to the window like he could see it through the snow-crusted glass, even though that window only overlooked the kitchen herb gardens now slick with ice.

“Not entirely impossible, Graham,” Valanice murmured. “Remember?” True, though rare: Valanice had been trapped in one such moving castle twenty-some years ago, although that one had most definitely stopped moving.

Graham nodded. “But they might be here by accident. I believe that sort of transport magic is fickle and hard to control.” And twenty years ago, that had been simply a single spindly tower. It was relatively easier to enchant on a small scale, as far as he knew. But this sounded….

“It’s a full castle, perfectly enormous,” No3 continued, confirming Graham’s thoughts. “It made _such_ a noise, like a great crashing monster, and I thought…. I had to start running back to the castle, but the storm this morning, I didn’t expect it to blow up like that, and I was. Caught out in it. I slipped on the hill trying to get back up, and I rolled, and with the snow like it was, blasting up from the ground, I…I got so turned around, I got lost, Sire, in Daventry fields, I got _lost!_

“And it was so _loud,_ the castle, all groaning and creaking, and you could hear it echoing around the valley as it settled, and I…I was so sure something was going to grab me in that storm and take me away and I couldn’t even see my own glove in front of my face, and it was so cold. It just bit right into my bones even through all my layers and. I ran and I ran, and I could hear that castle the whole time, this awful sound, like you couldn’t hear if something was coming up behind you, and you couldn’t see in that storm anyway, and I don’t know how, but I found the tree line, and…”

“And she found me,” No1 said, subtly shifting so that he was between her and the royal family. “She found the trail back to the castle, found me, and I’ve dispatched scouts. Reports are clear, Sire. You have new neighbors, crushing your lavender.”

The room was still and silent for a moment, other than No3’s nervous hiccups for air.

“You didn’t hurt yourself falling, did you?” Graham asked.

“No, no, I’m. Fine. Just.”

“Shaken,” No1 interrupted.

“Didn’t want to wait before telling you, though,” she added.

“Here, let me get you some tea,” Valanice said, standing.

“No, no, I’m meant to serve you,” No3 said nervously.

“And you have done so wonderfully. Come on, sit here.”

“It could definitely be an accident,” Graham repeated, mulling it over while Valanice hunted through the mugs on the side table. “They might not have come here intentionally, especially if the storm blew them in.”

“Maybe they need directions,” Rosella chirped. “And ‘welcome to Daventry’ cookies.”

“Welcoming hot chocolate would be more appreciated,” No1 said blandly. “Reports indicate that the castle is made of ice.”

“…Ice?”

“Frozen water, yes.”

No3 was still trembling, tea threatening to spill over onto her gauntlets. She was surely thinking about getting lost in the snow, slipping and falling and hurting herself on one of Daventry’s rocky outcroppings. No1 was watching her carefully, and he radiated a bristly protective determination.

“Did you sense anyone?” Graham asked her, gently. “The castle was loud as it was landing, but…did you feel like there was anyone watching you?” For some reason he couldn’t shake the idea of ice people, which was perfectly ludicrous. But then, so was a floating castle.

“I couldn’t say, Sire,” she said. “I was too, uh. Distracted.”

“What about the scouts?”

No1 shook his head. “No one has heard so much as a word from it, but the storm is still quite bad. We can’t get close enough yet to confirm. I…” He cut himself off and resolutely refused to say whatever was still on his mind.

“Who’s out there?”

“Two and Four are on the road—I insisted on pairs, Sir, to prevent one getting lost alone. Kyle and Larry are on strict orders to report back the moment anything changes.”

(Larry’s arm had been badly broken during the attack that had taken Alexander eighteen years ago, and it had never quite healed right. But he hadn’t been much good at patrols anyway, so he and Kyle mostly ran messages together these days. Their footing was the most secure on any terrain. They’d had plenty of practice over the years, and a blizzard wouldn’t faze them.)

“I wonder. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale,” Graham said. _The goblins thought fairy tales were true._ He blinked, wondering where that idea had come from. “I want to see it for myself.”

No1 stiffened. “Sire,” was all he said, but so dry and sharp he could have cut someone.

“This doesn’t feel like a coincidence, a castle made of _ice_ and this weather,” Graham said. “If I can see who’s in there, who owns the place, maybe that will help Daventry.” There was a buzzing excitement in his skin. The possibility of some action spurred him onward. Maybe they weren’t at the mercy of the skies. Maybe this castle held some answer for the storms that plagued his country—maybe finding a way to move it on would change Daventry’s predicament.

At the table, quiet and uncertain, Alexander said, “Could I come with you?”

Everyone turned, and Alexander shrank down in his chair. No1 instantly started voicing a thousand concerns, but Graham cut him off with a nod, delighted his son was taking initiative. “Absolutely.”

“Sire, please, allow me to speak freely,” No1 said.

“You may.”

“This is a _terrible_ idea.”

“Has anyone threatened us? Does it feel harmful?” Graham asked, circumventing the concern.

“It feels cold, Sire.”

“That’s generally what ice does,” Rosella said, leaning heavily on the sarcasm to match No1, but she had a sparkle of mischief in her eyes that belayed her enjoyment.

No1 very carefully _didn’t_ look at her. “It may be true that no one has said or done anything yet, but there _is_ a blizzard on right now. It is highly likely whoever owns the castle is lying low until the storm passes. Simply because we have not seen any signs of actual threat yet does not mean your safety is guaranteed.”

“I think this might be a small risk,” Graham said dismissively. “If they meant us harm, they could have taken us unawares in the night. A floating castle landing on top of us would have been a threat. _This_ probably is a mistake. They could need us.”

“I must have at least until this afternoon to confirm,” No1 said, and there was a taste of weary resignment in his words. “I will not risk more danger to your family if I can at all avoid it. You cannot travel in this blizzard in any case.”

Graham thought about it, then agreed. “Continue to watch. If anyone does respond, I want to know immediately. In the meantime, I think I’ll check the library for anything about moving castles.”

The walk to the lavender fields, several hours later, was peaceful enough. The blizzard had died back, although more clouds seemed to be gathering over the distant field, over the intruding castle’s turrets. Graham idly wondered if something inside had to rest and rejuvenate before storming again, and he laughed at the idea. They had no proof the castle had brought the snow, and it felt like a leap to imagine so. This was just an illusion brought on by his own expectation.

Nothing much had changed between the morning and now. Actually, nothing at all had changed. The castle was there, unmoving, and nothing had responded to any calls or flag waving or anything. No one really wanted to go up and knock, but the castle hadn’t opened up for anything else yet.

Number One marched a little way ahead of Graham and Alexander, watching the roads for any hint of danger, his hand on his sword hilt. Beside him was No3, guiding them along her original route to the castle so they would see it as she had. Her back was stiff, and she had fallen into the natural royal guards’ swinging gait. If she had any apprehension about returning to the place that had frightened her, she certainly didn’t show it, moving with all the trained confidence she could muster. Her fear would not be her defining memory. Graham couldn’t help but smile, proud of his team and the effort they gave.

Behind them, No2 walked a little more slowly, snuffling miserably with the start of a cold. He, too, had his hand close to his sword, just in case. Kyle and Larry were a little distance further behind, to act as part of a signal beacon, with Number Four watching them from Daventry Castle’s battlements. And that was as large a delegation as Graham wanted, at least initially. There were more guards available and ready to assist should things turn sour, but he didn’t want to tip things over into a fight unnecessarily. Too many numbers could look like a threat. They would stay outside, perhaps in the courtyard, and talk, he hoped, and determine what his new and preferably temporary neighbors wanted.

In the back of his head, Graham knew this was a foolish idea, but he was _starving_ for action. Desperate to protect his people. This was the first thing he felt he could do. No threats had been sent from the castle. The Daventry guards had been left alone. If anything, Graham thought the floating castle residents might be hurt, struggling, unable to reply even if they wanted to.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself so that he wouldn’t think too hard about what a bad idea this might be.

It was quiet. Graham didn’t sense that anything was necessarily wrong. Winter was a quieter season. However, the air carried a strange, deadened silence to it that you tended to get only when it was actively snowing. Like the world was muffled and waiting. But it wasn’t currently snowing.

As they drew closer, the lonely silence grew. The snowpack started to give way to icy patches that made Graham’s boots, normally so grippy, skid and slide. He and Alexander had to catch themselves several times, and even the royal guards, boots currently equipped with crampons for patrols, were unsteady. The chill in the air nipped at them all the more as they drew closer. Graham’s ears ached, and he yanked his cap down further, smoothing his hair over the tips of his ears. He could feel the cold bite through his gloves.

The ice palace gleamed ahead of them, catching every scrap of light and reflecting it back. It was a thousand shimmering colors, almost impossible to comprehend. Its outer walls sparkled with white, cool grays, light blues, foamy greens, but further in, toward the heart of the castle, it took on crystalline blues, deep navy, black. The tallest tower, jutting at crazy angles out of the center of the castle, was purest white, and it was nearly translucent in places. It seemed possible to trace the hint of stairs leading up to its top.

But despite the clearness of the walls in certain places, there were no signs of humans, no colorful clothes of royalty or servants. Just endless grays and blues. Graham couldn’t be sure if some of the blue shapes were moving in the walls or if it was a trick of the light reflecting as he walked and changed his angle ever so slightly.

Finally, they approached the hollow itself where the castle sat. No1, shivering so badly that his knees knocked together, his armor clanging, bowed and gestured for Graham to lead.

It felt to Graham like he and his tiny entourage was the only life for miles. Not dangerous. Just achingly lonely.

The gates of the castle towered high above them. Icy, frostbitten, solid, and silent. Graham looked them up and down, marveling at how they had been carved. They had been given the clear marks of wood grain, of knots, of metal. It looked like a perfectly ordinary castle gate recast in ice and snow. As his gaze dropped to the base of the gates, he sighed. The castle had, indeed, simply plonked down in his fields—it was crushing the roses someone had so carefully planted in rows here. The poor bushes were twisted and curled and pressed beneath the foundation. The impact had knocked all the snow off them, and they were gnarled and broken and black looking.

Gently, Graham knocked on the gates, rapping with his gloved knuckle. The clattering echo that erupted from his knock sounded like gongs and bells striking each other, bouncing and resounding and reflecting on each other again and again. It seemed to shake the whole place. No one within would be able to ignore it, but as they waited, no one responded, either.

Graham knocked again, a little more forcefully, with the same result: a tremendous lot of noise, and no human or monster acknowledgement from within.

After a little wait, he went to knock a third time, and then he realized something odd. “You know,” he said to himself, “It doesn’t feel cold here.” He peeled off his glove and pressed his hand against the gate. It felt perfectly ordinary, like wood instead of ice, despite what his eyes insisted. It was warm, almost like it had been resting in the sun of a spring day. As he stood still, considering, he thought it felt a bit warmer, but his hand felt colder. Almost like it was leeching his warmth away, leaving a chill spreading up his arm.

Curious, he ran his bare hand down the wood, sensing the strange stealing warmth, wondering if this was magic or something more mundane—but then one of the crushed roses curled against the gate caught the side of his palm. It was much sharper and more piercing than an ordinary thorn bite should have been, and he hastily drew back his hand with a muffled yelp of surprise, half expecting to see blood pouring from a gaping wound but not seeing anything amiss. The flower itself, petals and all, was somehow still on the vine, shriveled and dead but nevertheless frozen into place on its stem.

“Are you okay, si—Dad?” Alexander asked, his voice shivering with cold or fear, Graham wasn’t sure which.

“It’s the roses,” Graham said, and rubbed his hand. “Just got nicked, wasn’t expecting it.” He leaned back and tried to see over the top of the gate. If anyone was coming to respond to his knock, it had to be soon. “I do think the guards were right. This place is empty, don’t you think? I’ve never seen a castle so _still_.” Still of life, anyway. The walls caught every reflection, every movement from outside, and shone it back like a broken mirror.

“It could be a really small staff,” Alexander offered, though he seemed distracted, concentrating on something Graham couldn’t detect.

“For a castle? Maybe,” Graham said doubtfully. “It takes a lot to keep one running, though. It’s not like a manor house. Still. Maybe they’ll reach out to us, since our attempts to talk to them don’t seem to be going anywhere. Hopefully we’ll learn something new by tomorrow.”

Above them, the storm clouds were starting to turn a bruised sort of gray, and No1 gestured for them to return home quickly. “Come along, Your Majesties. I shouldn’t think you want to be caught in that blizzard.”

“Shall we?” Graham said, and waved his son ahead of him. Before turning to go, Graham looked at the gate once more, and wondered what was just beyond it. What did the courtyard look like? If the gate felt like wood but was made of ice, were the carpets and tapestries the same? Torches casting off ice chips while still casting off heat in little half-melted alcoves? What about the people?

He sighed, shook his head, and followed his son up the path, rubbing his (gloved again) hand absently as he walked. His royal guards snapped back into their places, leading and following with swords at the ready, as apprehensive as ever. The wind sprang up behind them, hastening their steps like they were being chased away.

The hollow in front of the gate was quiet. No one came to the door to see who had been knocking. The rose bushes trembled in the wind. The rose that had caught Graham turned icy and cold. Frost bloomed along the shriveled petals, forcing the dead and withered rose into a second bloom, sharpening and hardening the petals, until the whole stem was solid and clear and blue and cold. It was almost part of the castle, almost frozen into silence in the gate, but the wind twirled through the hollow. The rose slammed against the door and broke into a thousand glittering shards. The sound of the impact was like another knock, ringing clear in the deepening gloom as early winter night stole over Daventry.

But this time, something deep within the castle shifted.

* * *

Valanice woke before Graham, but she didn’t want to get up. The air outside the blankets nipped her nose. The temperature had dropped again, and it didn’t feel like anyone had stoked the fireplace. Perhaps it was too early. She pressed herself against Graham—he was as cozy as a bear, a proper furnace of his own. Nice in the winter, not so nice in the summer, but right now she wanted him to hug her close and keep her warm. Sleepily, he obliged, moving his arms to hold her as she wanted.

She smiled contentedly and snuggled deeper with a sigh, but then his hand grazed her shoulder, and she flinched away, annoyed. “Graham, your hands are like ice,” she complained.

“Mmm?” He pulled her closer. “But you’re so warm.”

“No, seriously, Graham, you’re freezing. Stop that.” Valanice batted him away, sitting up in bed, properly awake now, blankets pulled up to contain the warmth.

He sat up with her, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stopped. Blinked. She looked at him. She looked down. He looked down.

His hand was encased to the wrist in ice. Not encased. Replaced, transformed, by ice. Deep and clear and white, like a carving. It glittered and sparkled, catching what little light there was in the room. He twisted it, bent the fingers stiffly—they could hear the ice crackle, like ice cubes dropped into lemonade on a hot day.

They looked at each other.

They _screamed._

* * *

Nothing helped.

Graham nursed blazing cups of tea that no one else could touch. He wrapped his hand in a hot blanket. He drank gut-warming whiskey and poured the rest of the glass over his hand. He plunged it into a hot bath. He held it distressingly close to the fireplace flames. During this last attempt, he tried to joke that it was like roasting marshmallows for s’mores—he was already a Graham Cracker, after all. It was a terrible joke that no one laughed at. Nothing changed. The ice remained resolutely icy.

In fact, by the end of the morning, the ice had _spread_. Not much, not enough that anyone other than Graham would notice. It was fractionally beyond his wrist, moving up his arm. Infinitesimally slow, but creeping along nevertheless. He pressed against it with his other hand like he could stop it, and that achieved about as much as his melting attempts. Nothing.

And, gradually, a chill started to spread, too. It didn’t matter that he was sitting clothes-singingly close to the fireplace, that he was practically chugging hot tea. There was a shiver in his fingertips, and a bone deep cold ache was spreading up his arm. By noon he could feel it in his shoulder, although the ice was barely beyond his wrist. His fingers seemed to be locking up, too, getting harder to bend.

“It’s that castle,” Valanice said. Her voice shook. Graham glanced up at her. “We have to get in there and demand they reverse...whatever _this_ is.”

“They do have quite the defense system,” Graham agreed. He tugged the blanket higher over his shoulder with his good hand, careful not to drag it through the smoldering embers on the edge of the fire.

“Sire, you cannot go there again,” No1 said sharply. He snapped into full attention, as though formality would carry him forward. “I will not permit it. I have some sway over matters of your safety, and I shall invoke those abilities now. You shouldn’t have gone in the first place. I accept blame for that decision fully, and you may retire me at any point _after_ these events are concluded. I shall send a delegation in your place, as I ought to have insisted upon doing the first time.”

“And have Matt or Kyle or Roberta freeze like me?” Graham said, an edge to his voice, ignoring their titles in his frustration. “I think not. This already got me. I’ve got to see it through rather than risk it happening to anyone else.”

“Sire.” No1 only stood up straighter. Someone could have used him as a level to hang paintings precisely. “If they caused this injury to you yesterday, they’ll only be delighted to have you stroll back up to them so they can finish the job.”

“No one was even around to do something malicious in the first place, you know that!” Graham insisted. “I pricked myself on that rose. It was inattentiveness, not intentionality. I tripped a trap that wasn’t meant for me. It was _my_ rose bush, for stars’ sake, part of Daventry! It’s probably a curse on the castle that infected my country, and the people inside could be as desperate for help as me!”

“You can’t know that for certain, though. This might have been a trial foray, to see if they could catch you easily. Daventry has its enemies. Perhaps more so now than ever.” No1 glanced sideways at Alexander, who was sitting ramrod straight in a chair near the door, looking for all the world like a sculpture himself. “This is a delicate time, Graham,” he said, his voice and his protocol dropping so the king alone would hear him. “Don’t risk anything unnecessarily.”

Graham held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down at the hearth, at the snapping flames. “You might be right,” he said softly.

“I’m sure I am. I’ll pull together a team now. Volunteers only: they’ll be told the risks. But, Sire, I think I’ll have more volunteers than I’ll know what to do with. They love you. They want to help you. Please, let them.”

No1 bowed smartly and left with a click of his sharpened heels. After he was gone, the rest of the royal family filtered out as well, Alexander running to find an alcove to hide in, Rosella following him, Valanice going to order more tea. Graham sat alone by the fireplace, feeling the silent emptiness of the room bearing down on his shoulders. He felt hollow, and the room felt bitter. Like he was sitting in an icy cavern even now.

The same questions.

What did that courtyard look like? The carpets, the tapestries—could they bend like fabric while still being as cold as ice? Were the torches hot despite their icy veneer? What about the _people_?

He wanted to go back. He wanted to see inside. He wanted to know _._ He yearned to know. Was everything made of it, and did it still work? Were there others with ice instead of flesh? He _needed_ to know.

He swapped the blanket for his cloak.


	5. Snowbound

Alexander thought he had lost Rosella somewhere behind him as he raced through the twisting corridors.

He had quickly uncovered most of Daventry castle’s secrets. Abandoned secret passages filled with dust and cobwebs that made him stifle sneezes. Alcoves long ignored behind ancient tapestries that overlooked odd little abandoned gardens. Closets stuffed to the hinges with cleaning supplies, torches, blankets, pillows, and the other sorts of things the guards needed to keep the castle suitable for royalty. It was almost possible for Alexander to make it from one side of the castle to the other without ever setting foot on the rich red carpet that covered most of it. Rosella wasn’t supposed to be able to track him through it.

Except, she did.

He had shoved himself into one of the forgotten alcoves, knees drawn up to his chin, watching snow fall beyond the dusty window, when she chirped from the other side of the tapestry, “You might think you know this castle well, but you forget: _I grew up here._ I know things about it you’ll need two decades to find.” She squeezed next to him. “Ohh, it’s cold.”

“It’s my fault,” he whispered, watching the guards trooping through the snow, the red and blue flashes of their uniforms striking against the endless white road. His warm breath fogged the frozen glass, turning them into colorful little blurs that faded out of sight around a snowbank.

“What is? Scoot over,” Rosella said, all elbows and knees and trying to find a comfortable place to sit without jabbing him—the alcove was too small for one person, much less two.

Alexander twisted his hands in his scarf. Rosella traced patterns in the frosted window with her fingertip.

She was better at getting reluctant courtiers to talk than Alexander knew, even if her means were a little less refined than Graham’s gentle coaxing. The expectant silence she radiated was more uncomfortable than being squished into this alcove. Alexander made himself start talking to fill some of the weird wariness.

“When Roberta…Number Three,” he corrected himself, “came in to tell us what she saw….” He took a deep breath, not wanting to admit this next part but knowing it would help. “When I lived with _him,_ I could tell what he was feeling most of the time. It was the only thing that stopped me getting…um. Hurt. But. She was so _afraid_ , even more than she was letting on. I think…she was worried she was going to get fired for not doing more, not getting rid of the problem like a guard should. And I…I don't want her to feel helpless. I wanted to see if I could do something to help her.

“I knew there was magic out there. I could feel it. Even last night, I sensed it was coming. Living with _him,_ I got used to the taste of it. It’s like…it’s like hearing bells in another room, or like feeling dust in the air, but dust like the sugar dust in the Fey’s shop. Not a bad thing, even when _he_ was doing it. And I thought, if I didn’t hide this time, if I went to see the castle with her, maybe I could help. I don’t want anyone to be upset anymore. I’m tired of being useless. I want...I want them to be happy.

“But when we got to the gate, everything felt wrong. Like there was this greasy stain over the whole castle. And I didn’t pay any attention to what Gra—Dad was doing, and he touched it, and the roses, and I should have stopped him, and I didn’t, and now this is happening. It’s my fault.”

It felt like the most he’d ever said at once in his life, and he sank deeper into himself, not at all sure he’d said anything right.

Rosella kept tracing circles in the frost, ice gathering under her fingernail. It was almost like she could do magic herself the way she could drag words out of people just by sitting there. He watched, wondering what it felt like for ice to spread up your hand. The others might not have noticed, but he had. The warmth of the fireplace and everything had probably slowed it down, but it was definitely moving. Graham had tugged down his sleeve at some point, so Alexander wasn’t sure how far along it was by now. What would happen when it reached his lungs, his heart?

“First, you couldn’t stop Dad from marching right up to those gates even if you tried,” Rosella said dismissively when she decided he wasn’t going to say anything else. “You saw Number One try, and they’ve known each other since the day Dad came to Daventry. So, quit thinking that. But that’s not important. If you can sense it, is there anything you can do to _stop_ it?”

“I’m not sure,” Alexander said. “I know…a few things.” He shifted, evasive. “Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I…I don’t want to make it worse.”

“At this point,” she pointed out, “it might not be able to get much worse.”

“I could make it permanent.”

“It seems pretty permanent now.”

“That’s true.” He sat silently. Then, anxiously, worried about making her worry: “Did you see it spreading?”

“I did. And I saw him shivering. He’s hiding it, but you can see it hurts. What do you know about ice magic?”

“It’s not just magic,” he said. “It’s more like a curse. That greasy, sticky feeling. There’s something extra to it.”

She looked flustered by her own helplessness. This wasn’t something she could fight her way through. He thought about how she played Battle of Wits, how she always went for direct attacks and never around the board. “Why can’t I feel it?”

“You might not have been around magic enough to notice.” He’d grown up immersed in it, breathing it in, like glittery dust lining his lungs.

“Do you know how to lift a curse?”

“I don’t know.” His shoulders drooped and he stared at his fingertips.

Rosella, though, stumbled (fell, more like) out of the alcove and reached back to help pull him out, too. “That’s better than a no. Come on, let’s go back to the sitting room. At the very least you can have a look at it and see. I bet you know more than you think you know.”

But when they got to the sitting room, they paused. Valanice was pacing an otherwise empty room, clutching a tray with a teapot on it in her hands and fretfully muttering under her breath. She glanced up, and her face was ashen. “Where’s your father?” she asked.

“Isn’t he here?”

“No, he...” her face crumpled, and her eyes darkened with realization. “I’m going to kill him. He wouldn’t.”

“He would,” Rosella said.

“Would what?” Alexander asked.

“Go back to the castle,” Rosella said. “It’s Dad. Of course he would.” 

“I’m going to kill him,” Valanice repeated, slamming the tray on the table. The teapot rattled.

“He’s going to freeze,” Alexander breathed, barely audible.

Valanice heard him anyway and gestured dismissively. “I’m sure he’s got his cloak.”

“No, the ice. It’s spreading up his arm. Didn’t you notice?” Rosella said.

That drew Valanice up short, and she looked at her daughter with a perfectly unreadable, blank expression, something she’d honed in her role as queen dealing with unpleasant news. For Rosella, that look was as good as a scream: she knew exactly what it meant, and she almost flinched.

“Alexander and I noticed. It’s slow, but I saw it. I don’t know how much time he’s got if he’s gone to a place made of actual ice. We were...I mean, Alexander kinda knows a little magic. A bit. He might be able to do something.”

That, too, took Valanice aback, and she glanced sideways at her son with an appraising eye. Alexander squirmed beneath her gaze. “A bit of magic,” she said, thoughtfully. “Well then. Get your gloves on, find a warm hat. Let’s go.”

“Go? To the castle? Really?” Rosella’s eagerness was tempered with surprise. “You...want us all to go? Just walk right up to the castle?”

“I’m not going to let my kids go there by themselves. What kind of mother would I be? I know you’re going to head down there the moment I turn my back, and I’m not going to sit around here wondering what’s happening to him.” She picked up a heavy woolen cloak and twirled it over her shoulders, a match to Graham’s but in her favorite color. “And anyway, he and Number One are probably both staring at a wall of ice, completely unable to get in. Now, what did I say about gloves? Shoo, go on, get them on.”

* * *

The gates were open.

Yawning, silent, _open_. Blue ice glittered, beckoning Graham forward. He lingered just outside the tunnel that led under the portico into the courtyard, wary of stepping forward, sure the gates would slam behind him and leave him trapped. Nothing within moved, nothing indicated the gates even could close. They seemed frozen into place, as immovable as a mountain.

But they had seemed that way yesterday when they were shut, too.

His icy fingers would no longer bend, and his wrist was starting to lock up now. The chill was well into his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop shivering despite his warm cloak and thick gloves. He drew in a deep breath, tasting the frost in the air, and, back straight, walked forward with as much confidence as a king.

The entrance was cold, but not nearly as cold as he’d expected. The exterior walls were so much colder than the interior, like it was leeching heat from its surroundings and hoarding it inside. He passed the guard house (empty), and he glanced a little nervously at the grates in the entrance tunnel’s ceiling, in case they did have some defenses ready to pour down on intruders—although to be fair, burning oil would probably chill back to regular oil before hitting him. He entered without incident.

The courtyard was smaller than he would have anticipated, but that was because it was crammed absolutely full with dozens of small buildings, much more than a functioning castle needed. Duplicate stables, barracks, keeps, kennels, aviaries, greenhouses, all with different designs. All the doors were blocked off with snow mounds and icicles thick as dungeon cell bars, proving that no one used those buildings.

The most impressive thing, and the building that seemed most likely to be occupied, was the central keep with the spindly tower stabbing into the skies from its exact middle. He walked around lamp posts of all different varieties, past snow coated benches and bushes, to approach what seemed like the main door. Like the gates, this door seemed frozen open. Snowflakes blew inside, covering what little of the entrance hall he could see.

He had definitely beaten the royal guards here. The courtyard was entirely unmarred by footprints other than his own lone trail. That was for the best—if Number One caught him here, Graham would catch quite the earful, king or no.

He hastened inside, cloak snagging on the door frame. Before him spread a cavernous room, as icy and clear as he’d imagined it. Huge reflective pillars soared upward. Alcoves, which would normally hold things like suits of armor or busts of nobility, were empty, but numerous. Graceful tapestries were frozen into place across them. The floor was checkered with large tiles in different shades of blue, and a little way inside, a snow-white carpet trailed off into the darker shadows of the hall before meeting an impressive staircase that swirled around and up, an impossible structure that promised more fascinating delights deeper inside.

With all the snow piled up within the door frame, his weight almost didn’t trip the pressure plate trap set up along the door. Almost. He didn’t feel his heel pressing down against one of the tiles as he walked, couldn’t hear the bell that started ringing in the depths of the castle, didn’t sense the crackle and snap of ice as figures stiffened, distracted from their original tasks, and started moving toward the courtyard.

He did notice the second trap tile, though—mostly because this one opened up a slide beneath his boots and sent him careening into a labyrinth of frosty rooms and tunnels beneath the castle. The tile slid back into place, the heavy ice perfectly silencing his startled yelp. Another, different bell started jangling elsewhere in the palace, interrupting teatime. The queen set down her cup and watched the chiming bell, the cat at her side flicking its long black tail.

* * *

Royal Guard Number One was already shivering. He and the rest of the guards were bundled up, but even with all the quilted padding and scarves and gloves and earmuffs-under-helmets and everything, he still felt the chill ache in his bones. But when he considered Graham’s frozen hand and how miserable that must be, he walked faster. He was determined to fix this. He would march right up to those gates and knock them down if he had to. He would find a cure for his king. He had to. Failure was not an option.

He didn’t have to knock anything down, though. The gates were open. Practically inviting the Daventry troop forward.

“That’s. Different than it was. Should we go in?” No2 asked. His voice was oddly hollow sounding, echoing off the castle walls.

“Something’s here,” No3 muttered. She nodded at the set of footprints leading inside.

“Stay in line. Move forward,” No1 said through teeth gritted to stop them chattering. The little group of colorful guards spread out inside the courtyard, looking around with wary curiosity, checking every corner for foes. Hands rested on sword hilts, ready to attack—but there was no one here. The courtyard was entirely still. No sign of any life. Their footsteps made soft crunching noises, but other than that and the gentle whisk of the wind twirling among the banks, the courtyard was silent.

And absolutely _crammed_ with a ridiculous variety of structures of every shape and type. Whoever had planned this layout had definitely been at the mead too hard, and No1 should like to have a word with the castle steward about this mess. It was almost overwhelming to consider how much _stuff_ was here, frozen in haphazard places. Benches, lampposts, fountains crammed between unnecessary buildings of every make and type—all coated in snow and ice.

No1 took a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a rush, an old, favorite way to maintain his poise. His breath fogged in front of him; impossible to hide his little calming trick in this weather. But when the cloud faded and his vision was clear, the courtyard was _not_ the same as it had been. Not at all.

He found himself face to face with himself. Well. Sort of himself. It looked like a royal guard of Daventry, the same uniform and everything, but mangled, abstract. A sculpture done in ice, wacky and wild. It was taller than he was, and the feather part of the helmet crooked out at a ridiculous angle. He glanced behind him and saw more of the sculptures standing around his men. They’d just appeared. At least, it felt like they had.

He probably simply hadn’t seen them. They were practically translucent, a purest sort of ice. It was a trick of the light, a trick of the angle he was standing at, that had hidden them from view. And the courtyard was so crammed with other things, he just hadn’t noticed these particular statues among the rest of the chaos. Which was admittedly odd, since there were at _least_ two dozen of them standing all around at first glance, if not more....

No one else had noticed them before this moment, either, it seemed, and all were surprised. Numbers Two and Three were now pressed against each other, trying to take up as little space as possible while still standing in about the same place—four or five sculptures seemed to be hemming them in. No4 was standing a little distance from them, not slouching for once but stiff as a tree. Larry squeaked and leapt into Kyle’s arms, and they stumbled back a pace from one of the sculptures posed as though it was reaching for them. Everyone was shivering, staring, baffled.

No one had gone for their swords—they were frozen sculptures, not enemies, after all. The team had merely been startled, and looked sheepish for being frightened for no decent reason.

No1 made to step around the sculpture in front of him, and it _stepped with him._

It mirrored his movement perfectly. Its steps were silent. His hand instinctively reached for his sword hilt. The ice sculpture did the same, with the reverse hand, exactly like a reflection. He eased his hand back, and he watched his reflection mimic him. At his side, behind him, he thought he detected more movement. More sculptures. Circling and trapping him. _Stars._

“Ah. I suspect you weren’t here a moment ago, were you?” he asked, quietly, careful not to goad the thing into attacking his men if he could avoid it. The sheer number of their foes was well beyond anything his team, well trained as they were, could handle. It was a pointless question. He already knew the answer. It hadn’t been a trick of the light hiding them—these sculptures had marched into place, alerted to the Daventry guards’ presence by something. Their blank visages were grim.

The ice guard cocked its head, and then it seemed to repeat the same question back at No1, the same intonation, but apparently in reverse. Alive, cognizant, and, No1 was absolutely, breathtakingly, certain, _dangerous_.

“Swords!” No1 yelled, whipping out his weapon. Didn’t matter how futile this was. They had to try. Around him, he heard the rasping metal sounds that indicated his men had obeyed. “As you will!”

But as he drew back for a slashing cut, to bring the ice creature down, something struck the back of his helmet, making his ears ring, and while he was momentarily distracted, freezing hands tighter than manacles grabbed his wrists, his arms, his legs, his shoulders, and he struck out desperately, but he was seeing double and his sword caught a bad angle, rebounding uselessly off the ice, and something heavy crashed down over his helmet, and everything went dark.

* * *

Even from a distance, Valanice could see that the castle gates were open, and that no one, not her husband, not the royal guards, not even someone belonging to the ice castle itself, was around. Her children trailed after her, and she wondered if she’d made a mistake. She should have asked the Feys to babysit them—never mind that Alexander and Rosella were almost eighteen. The two of them would probably rush off, stubborn as their father, to go have an adventure without someone watching them. Even the bubbly Feys could bring out their protective parent sides if asked. They’d done such a good job raising Taylor after all.

Too late now. She didn’t feel comfortable sending her kids back alone, if they would even listen to her in the first place. Both her husband and the whole team of guards were missing, and that likely meant something nasty was underfoot.

Speaking of underfoot: the courtyard’s snow was a tumultuous mess. It was impossible to determine anything in the mire. She couldn’t verify, in that tangle of tracks, if Graham or the guards had even been here or if they’d been waylaid on the road. But that, too, made her pause. The castle dripped loneliness like melting icicles, so who had made these tracks if not the Daventry folk? And if they had been here, where were they now? They hadn’t had _that_ much of a head start, perhaps no more than twenty minutes, and Valanice and her family had been moving fast.

And why did the snow look so overturned? It looked like they’d been in a fight. But there was no one here. There simply hadn’t been _time._

Rosella made a strange sound in the back of her throat and lunged for something half buried in the snow. Alexander drew up next to her, and they both stared, crestfallen, at the bright red feather that had clearly been yanked from one of the royal guards’ uniform helmets.

That proved matters simply enough. Valanice’s hands curled into fists, but that was the only sign she let herself show in front of her children. “I want you to go back to the castle,” she told them, in a sharp voice that left no room for argument, the voice of a queen. “Now. I want you to send a message to the villagers once you’re home. I want everyone to come to the castle, immediately, and I want the gates barred the moment the last villager is safe.”

But when they turned, they found the ice gates barred themselves, entirely frozen over, like they’d never been open in the first place. As immovable as the Daventry castle foundation. Valanice felt a shiver of fear dance along her spine (though, again, she showed none of her uncertainty).

Alexander’s eyes were half closed. He was glaring at the gate, muttering under his breath. “Not the curse,” he said, slowly. “That one’s ordinary magic. It’s dusty, can you feel it?”

“Can you reopen it?”

“Um. I’m not. I don’t know. Maybe? It...it’s strong.”

Valanice smiled, tried to set him at ease. “I have a feeling you’re stronger than you’re letting yourself believe.”

They coaxed him toward the gates. His boots slid haphazardly over the trampled snow, and he stood in front of the icy walls, concentrating hard.

Far, far above them, beyond the royal family’s sight, someone watched. And someone smiled, a cold, sharp, wicked smile, with rather more pointed teeth than a smile normally had.

The traps were all springing closed faster than expected, even with the day’s delay he’d needed to recover after encouraging the castle to come here. He wasn’t sure whom the ice labyrinth had caught (he hadn’t yet gotten a report) but whoever it was, he was sure he could use them as leverage against dopey Graham. The man loved his citizens to a fault. He’d planned on using whoever it was as a bargaining chip: trade them, possibly with all fingers and toes intact if he was in a good mood, for the crown prince.

The ice guards had been notified by the bell at the entrance hall. They had been coming up to check on the labyrinth to see if the interloper was suitably valuable for trading. But they had been distracted by the appearance of a whole pack of Daventry royal guards nosing their way into the courtyard. He’d stood at the tower window gleefully watching the ice guards surround the hapless royal guards and pick them off one by one, starting with that annoying Number One, and dragging them all away. Daventry's security was pathetic. It was a marvel the place was still standing. The royal guards should be ashamed.

Once they were done locking up the guards, the ice troop was going to come back and check on the labyrinth captive. But, suddenly, Manannan decided that whoever it was probably wasn’t important enough to worry about at the moment.

Not when the boy had strolled in of his own volition.

With Queen Valanice and Princess Rosella, even. It was enough to make him purr with delight. This was just too delicious, too lucky, too _easy_.

He’d shut the gates behind them almost as soon as they’d entered, practically vibrating with the urgency of holding the family inside before they turned around and left. For a moment he thought he’d timed it wrong, thought the boy had noticed the magic as it was cast and might be able to do something about it in the process. But Rosella had satisfactorily distracted them by finding something in the snow.

Tragically, the ice guards were a little too busy taking care of the royal guards to attend to the family. One of the various traps in the entrance hall would have to suffice. He even had a lever that he could pull to drop them straight into a single icy cell, and the more he thought about it, the more eager he was to use it. He wouldn’t have to scour the labyrinth but could simply pluck Gwydion out of his cushy life and make him undo _this awful curse._

He padded lightly into the depths of the tower, scheming. The things he could do with _all three_ royal family members in his claws.

Meanwhile, below, Alexander stepped back, breathing raggedly. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I don’t...it’s so strong. I don’t know how to open it. I don’t know the words. I don’t know how. I’m sorry.”

Valanice reached out and gently touched her son’s shoulder, and he flinched away. “Don’t fret, Alexander. Your father and the guards are here, and they probably need our help. We shall simply have to find them together, and then sort out an escape after that. We shall be fine—the Cracker family always is. All right?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, looking guiltier than ever, like he could sense her unease.

“But we shall have to stick very close together,” she said. “No wandering off, _right, Rosella_?” The last two words were pointed.

“Right, Mom.” Rosella bounced on her heels, face upturned to study the tower, not actually listening. “We should hurry.”

“No, we should take this slowly and carefully,” Valanice decided. “Haste is what got your father into this trouble in the first place. Come along, let’s go inside. That wind is biting. And then I shall decide what to do next.”

As they came upon the entrance hall, Valanice, looking for trouble, drew back. She caught her children by the arms to make them wait. Little shreds of red thread were snagged on the icy door frame, easy to spot against the blue. Graham’s cloak. He had made it inside under his own power, she was certain—and her thoughts were confirmed when she found a few of his footprints, blurry but visible and alone, in the snow piled up beyond the door. But then...nothing. The snow petered out, the hall made of hard tiles that revealed nothing.

“Alexander, do you...” she hesitated, not sure of the right word. Feel? Taste? See? “Is there any magic here?”

“Lots,” he whispered. “It’s almost hard to breathe.”

“Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“Everything’s made of it. But there’s this layer of…something on top? It feels like Gr— _Dad’s_ arm. Sort of greasy. It’s hard to know what’s underneath it, but I think…we should be careful where we walk. The first couple tiles don’t, uh, feel safe.”

“And the rest?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Some are bad, some are good. If we can get to the carpet, we should be fine for a while.”

“Stay close together,” Valanice said, and stepped carefully over the tile where the snow abruptly ended (and Graham’s footprints vanished with the snow—she wondered about that). “Alexander, lead the way, if you please. We’ll see where those stairs take us.”

Alexander stepped ahead of his mother, Rosella at his side as they had promised.

In the tower, Manannan kicked back a lever.

A locking mechanism, entirely unmagical and entirely unnoticeable, clicked open. The floor began to shift.

Valanice saw Alexander and Rosella start to fall as the floor slid away to nothing beneath them. She lunged, slamming her hands against their backs and sending them flying forward. Rosella lost her balance and skidded across the floor face first, and landed solidly on one of the tiles Alexander had warned them about, which opened and sent her deep into the castle. It was a little hard to tell if her screams were of terror or excitement, but they cut off as the tile slid back into place behind her. Alexander fell hard, spinning in circles around and around and around. He saw Valanice drop into the pit that had almost claimed him and his sister, and he tried to scramble to his feet and reach her, but his momentum carried him to a different tile and he, too, disappeared into the castle depths with a cut-off yelp.

* * *

The slides had been Manny’s idea. He didn’t have the magic to carve and bespell them himself anymore, but the lady of the castle had been more than willing to oblige once he’d praised her strength and cunning and ability. He’d been bored and frustrated for numerous reasons, and she had been eager to please. The slides went all over the castle’s underbelly.

Some dropped people into a frozen labyrinth of spiraling rooms with no exit. Some didn’t bother with the tormenting labyrinth but simply dropped people soundly in the dungeon. Not as many, though: the labyrinth, a pre-existing feature of the castle composed of rooms as numerous and varied as the buildings in the courtyard, was tricky and confusing and uncomfortable, and he rather enjoyed leaving people to stumble around it helplessly for a long while before hauling them out. One or two of the slides led to pitch black ice pockets with no way out until one of the ice guards retrieved the captive or left them there to freeze (he’d been in a particularly devious mood that day).

And one spat people outside in a snowbank, although that one was near the stairs and mostly existed to annoy Mordack, who sometimes didn’t pay attention to exactly which tile he was stepping on when he descended the steps.

Mordack was the one who had learned of this traveling castle, the strange icy palace that left silence in its wake as it drifted with the winds. Mordack had sleuthed out its whereabouts, had helped lead Manannan, cursed and humiliated, to its gates. Manannan had found wheedling his way into the castle’s good graces a snap.

Everyone else she had met in her travels had demanded that the queen take her castle and leave. Threatened her, were rude and angry to her, and made her angry in kind. No one else had asked her if they could stay.

She was incredibly lonely…and incredibly easy to exploit. The castle had been his in less than a week.

A promise here, a smile there, a compliment every once in a while, and the castle and its ice servants were his to command. He promised to increase its strength, to magnify its storms tenfold. To protect the queen from invaders who would love nothing more than to destroy her for being different, as he himself in his current shape was different. Comparing the two of them had been a stroke of brilliance, he thought. Made her much more susceptible to trusting him as an equal outsider, not knowing he planned on dropping her off a cliff the moment he had his own magic back.

Still, once he was in charge, he wasted no time at all in guiding it to its new destination in Daventry proper (even if it was the slowest, most time- and power-consuming form of travel he could imagine, spreading its storms long before it even came close to the horizon).

Mordack could have complained about the snowbank slide, then, since he was the one who had helped his brother find this place. But Mordack was never one to complain about being the butt of a joke. At least a snowbank was softer than a goblin spear thumping across his shoulders. He still bore the scars to remind him of his abused years underground. He was careful to never complain in Manny’s presence about his treatment, about Gwydion’s treatment, about anything. Just in case Manny decided to send him back.

It took Manannan quite some time to navigate the ice castle, which was cavernous even on a human scale, much less his current cursed self. His stroll to the entrance hall was entirely unhurried. He knew how large the trap had been, and he was quite sure he had all three family members safe and sound. Best to let them shiver together and wonder. The anticipation was frequently more deliciously terrifying than the end result, he’d found.

He sauntered up to the pit, composing his fuzzy features into something suitably boastful. He gleefully called out, low and threatening, “Hello, hello, hell—” he stopped.

Valanice, and only Valanice, was standing at the bottom of the pit, arms crossed, tapping her boot and scowling up.

* * *

Standing at the bottom of an icy cell had _not_ improved Valanice’s temper. She was already on edge, and with this she was positively fuming. She’d been standing here for _ages._ Her children could be anywhere by now, and her husband had definitely gotten himself into tremendous trouble, and she was _stuck here waiting_. The time for gentleness and politeness was long gone. She was more than ready to deliver a scathing attack to whoever deigned to look in on her.

But best laid plans began to melt away the moment she heard the voice. The voice that laced her nightmares. And the remnants of said plans shattered when she saw what was leaning over the edge of the pit, inhuman features distorting around a human voice. The face didn’t match her memories, but it didn’t matter. It was the voice that mattered.

Helpless, stumbling against the wall, spiraling back eighteen years ago, back to that horrible night. The sound of the green crackling magic banishing the final notes of Graham’s lullaby to their children, the pain of her wrists pinned behind her back, the aching loss that cursed her every step from that moment on, that moment when her son was stolen from her by this _monster_. At least the face was appropriately inhuman now, as he himself was inhumanly cruel.

Only her queenly respectability stopped her from swearing violently. “Manannan _,_ ” she snarled, as cold as her surroundings.

From behind Manannan, another voice spoke, and this one was all the more familiar, and all the worse for the strange icy echo behind it. It pressed deep into her heart, and she felt something splinter and break inside of her as she realized who else was in this castle, who else had been lost to Manny’s treachery.

All the different emotions, between hearing _him_ and hearing _her_ and losing Graham and her children and the guards and _everything_ cut her knees, dropping her to the ice, startled and afraid and confused and lost.

From above, that oh so familiar voice said: “Did you catch another nice mouse, my dear friend? You do have so many traps. I wish we had not made quite so many, it does cause—oh. _You_ are not a mouse.”


	6. Fractals

The instant Alexander dropped below the entrance hall floor, he started clawing at the slide, trying to dig his toes into the walls, the slide itself, anything. His gloved hands slipped uselessly off the walls, and he skittered and bounced like a ball on a track, slamming into sharp bends that he couldn’t see in the dark. There were no footholds, no handholds, no outcroppings, nothing, and by the time he’d shook off the pain from crashing into another curve, there was no curve to grip (not that the slick walls would have afforded him any sort of leverage had he been prepared, anyway).

He didn’t know where this track was going, and he didn’t think it was anywhere good, and he wanted out. He wanted _out right now_.

Claustrophobic, shoved into a tiny, dark space, punishment for breaking a cup. Stretched and pulled like taffy for forgetting to wash a plate. Battered and bruised and frightened and angry and cold and tired and _done_.

_He had rescued himself from Manannan. He would rescue himself again._

Fierce terror and anger rose in him, and he forced the emotions together, channeled them into what little fragmented magic he knew, and he snapped his fingers. At first, nothing, and he did it again, and again, muttering half remembered words he’d stolen from Manannan, and _again_ , until finally the magic caught in his fingertips, and heat poured from his hands, and he slammed against the wall, and it melted away before him and sent him screeching down another road, one he made himself, and the new melted tunnel vanished beneath him and he felt himself falling, falling—but he saw in the split second before impact that he was probably going to land on something softer than the floor.

* * *

Normally, Graham liked mazes. Hedge mazes were lots of fun, he thought, and he’d always been fond of the corn maze Royal Guard Number Two organized every autumn. Even better when there were puzzles scattered around, just to make it extra tricky and entertaining.

But normally he wasn’t freezing to death, and normally he could see the sun, and normally he knew what the end goal was. Knew there was a way out. This one _probably_ had a way out, but it didn’t seem to be following any rules, and he was starting to doubt. He felt like rooms were circling around, sending him in every direction aimlessly. He’d tried going through left-most doors, but then he’d gotten confused and turned around in a couple of the larger emptier spaces and now had no idea where he was headed. He was sure he’d already been in some of the rooms, corridors entwined and intersecting. There was an overall slow downward slope to his route, like he was going deeper into the castle, and he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted.

The place seemed to be falling apart, too, perhaps a consequence of the castle moving and jarring against itself as it settled. He had to scramble over huge ice blocks and squeeze past fallen pillars. Had to find keys to doors that were locked before him and locked behind him again. None of which was an easy feat with his wrist entirely frozen over and his elbow starting to stiffen and his head starting to feel foggy (from the cold of the room or the cold of his arm, who could say). Strange carvings in the walls leered at him. Tunnels narrowed until he was hunched over, or swooped out so that his footsteps echoed around him.

He hadn’t found any signs of life. Just statues and sculptures that made him wonder if his curse had a solution at all. Distressingly realistic human sculptures carved of clear blue ice, in all manner of dress and features, scattered the rooms. Reaching, cowering, curled up broken in pieces on the floor. He had the oddest sense they were watching him, moving when he wasn’t looking at them.

Sometimes, there were sounds, but mostly they were of the sinking ship ice-creaking variety that made him think the place was going to fall down on top of him.

Take this new sound, though. It was perfectly chilling. Sounded like someone screaming, but muffled by layers upon layers upon layers of ice, a fractured sound in the walls. Until, quite suddenly, it wasn’t muffled, and the ceiling opened up into a slushy hole, and Alexander, flailing, dropped out of it, landing on top of Graham. The two collapsed in a tangled heap of cloaks and scarves.

Startled and unwilling to immediately accept the presence of Alexander in this icy prison, Graham instantly slipped into the babbling safety of terrible jokes. “Aaah, ice to see you, son, but this is snow place for a prince. We’ve already had fall, you know. I winter why you’re here. Have you snowflaked on your mother? That’s a cold thing to do, you know.”

Alexander stared wild-eyed, uncomprehending. Frost slicked back his hair.

“Ah, sorry, not the time.” They stood a little unsteadily, and Graham leaned back to look at the tunnel Alexander had apparently blasted open. “That’s...” he struggled for the right word in his alarm, “impressive.” He glanced at his son, and he quickly smoothed his expression into bland kingly interest. “Could you explain why you’re here and not safe in the castle where you should be?”

“We were worried,” Alexander said, still breathless, still staring up at what he’d done. He knotted his fingers together. “You hadn’t...you just left, and we couldn’t...we had to come.”

“ _We_?” The floor seemed to drop out from beneath Graham. “You’re not going to tell me your mother and sister are here, too, are you?”

“Um.”

“Valanice is here? Of her own volition? No one invaded Daventry Castle or forced her to come or anything, she decided on her own?”

“Yes.”

“Ohh, shining stars.” He was in _trouble._

“You just left,” Alexander repeated defensively. “We weren’t going to leave you to freeze.”

“I’m not going to freeze.” And there was a sharp note of anger in his voice, he realized, a snap that he wasn’t sure if he meant or not.

Alexander looked like he wanted to argue, and his eyes were on Graham’s arm (which was definitely colder, definitely locking up, definitely aching), but all the fight went out of him. Especially after hearing the frustration in Graham’s voice, the words choked in his throat. Arguing wasn’t something that came naturally, not after Manannan’s treatment. Not after Graham’s irritated tone. Whatever he’d been going to say or do just...stopped. He hovered on the front of his toes, like a bird trying to take flight, and could do or say nothing more than that.

Graham sighed, and then smiled at his son, apologetically, gently. “Nothing like the Crackers for snowballing right into danger. I’m surprised Number One didn’t send you back.”

“We didn’t see him. We, um. We think something happened to him.”

“Hmm?”

“It looked like there’d been a fight. They were gone. All of them. We never even saw them.”

And that felt like a slap. Graham blinked. The castle had been empty, lonely. No human was here, he would have bet his adventuring hat on it. And yet. He glanced at the ice sculptures leering at them, wondering if they’d crept a little closer while he and Alexander were talking. Maybe not that empty after all.

But they couldn’t leave the way Alexander had come, that was clear. The hole was high above them, perfectly glossy with smooth ice, reflective as a mirror. And Graham wasn’t sure which direction he’d come from, now. His head was getting fuzzier, his thoughts starting to splinter. Going back wouldn’t do them any good: his own slide down into the maze was long and cold and slick and behind a series of locked doors by this point. They’d have to go forward. If only he knew which way forward was, and if only he could guarantee there was a way out in the end.

He’d been distracted by Alexander and news of Valanice for a few minutes, but the pain of his arm was coming back at double strength, slicing through his thoughts, a pain that pulled his attention in every direction and made him feel all the more helpless. Useless.

He rubbed at his frozen wrist, staring at the gaping hole above them. It really was something incredible. Alexander had blasted it with some sort of heat, but the slush had already refrozen into sharp, cruel icicles dangling above them. Deadly. Magic, deadly. His arm, deadly. He wasn’t at all sure he liked his son knowing how to do something Manannan could do. Magic. What if it killed Alexander just as soundly as it was killing Graham?

He drew himself up, took refuge in his knightly training and kingly history, found the confidence he needed to project. Regrettably, it sounded like chilly annoyance when he spoke: “We must find Valanice, Rosella, and the guards. We’ll figure things out as we go.” He chose a direction and set off, praying to all the stars that he wasn’t backtracking.

* * *

Gwendolyn spent the day trying to find Gart, and Gart kept avoiding her. Every time she thought she saw him down a hall or in a room, he managed to get away from her. She wondered if Aunt Rosella had taught him about all those alcoves and tunnels that she had liked to hide in as a child, and she wished she knew the castle as well as he did. Gwendolyn had grown up in the Green Isles, as far away from here as it was possible to get, and hearing Grandpa’s stories about the secrets of Daventry’s castle had sparked her interest.

But she knew she wouldn’t get to discover the twists and turns of the passageways. Gart was right about that. She would be going home soon, and he would stay here, learning to be a good king.

Her father Alexander had relinquished his claim on Daventry’s throne long ago, changing the line of inheritance to Rosella’s family. Gwendolyn knew it was because he’d fallen in love with her mother, Cassima of the Green Isles, and had submitted to her authority and rule on the other side of the world. He loved it, loved the little islands with all their characters and abilities and interests, loved the smells and the sounds and the feel of the place. Loved Cassima.

He had found a home, in the end. Gwendolyn couldn’t help but wonder if it was meant to be her home, too, or if, like her grandfather, like her father, she was meant to wander, to find something to call her own. She didn’t begrudge Gart’s inheritance, not even a bit, but she was jealous of his confidence that this was where he belonged. That he had so much trust in his future when she was questioning so much. When she wanted what was best for everyone, best for both countries, both families, both lives…but wasn’t sure how _her_ happiness fit into the equation, too. Which made her feel guilty; she had so much good in her life. She didn’t deserve these doubts.

And yet. And yet, she doubted and worried and fussed, nevertheless, which just made her feel all the more guilty.

This was why the stories mattered so much. The stories were a way to explore and learn safely, to carve a road to decisions. If only Gart would listen to the stories, too.

Or if he would at least stop running away from her. She bit her lip, tugged up her hood, and hurried down another passageway, his name burning her throat as she called again and again with no response. Feeling lost in the labyrinth of the castle, not at all sure which way to turn next.

* * *

Royal Guard Number One shivered. “I hate being cold,” he muttered. His teeth chattered so hard that it sounded like he said every word twice. He was sitting on his helmet since that was warmer than sitting on the ice block chair that had been provided, blowing puffs of smoke as he tried to keep his fingers limber. Not that he had his sword to swing anymore, which made the exercise mostly pointless. Even with his quilted padding, even with his scarf and earmuffs and mittens and everything, he felt like he was turning to ice as solidly as Graham was.

He didn’t even have the others to huddle with for warmth: those strange living sculptures had easily determined he was captain of the little operation and had hastily separated him from the rest of the Royal Guard. He’d blinked away the cobwebs and shadows and pain just in time to find himself being flung face first into a frosty little cell. The door had slammed and locked behind him while he extricated himself from a snowbank.

In the distance down the hall, he had been able to make out No2 shouting something before being silenced, accompanied by an angry crack of ice against metal, and then...nothing after that. No sounds from his men or ice guards. Just the chilly creaking of the castle’s walls. He tried shoveling his way out (surely this place was no different than the pretend castles he had helped Rosella build when she was a toddler, a snow castle you could kick your way through in a pinch), but the blocks of ice were as hard as any actual dungeon wall he’d ever faced.

“I’m getting too old for this sort of nonsense.” He wondered how the others were getting on, and very much hoped they hadn’t been split up. Especially poor Larry, who possibly shouldn’t have been allowed to come considering how his bad arm locked up if it got too cold. Hopefully he and Kyle were together. If any of them had been hurt, those ice monsters were going to catch hell from Number One.

He had to get up and try to find another way out. He knew he did. But it was just so _cold_. In a minute, maybe, he’d stand up. If his knees weren’t frozen in place. For now, he blew on his fingertips again.

There was an incredibly loud crash from outside his door. It sounded like someone had knocked over a tray of glasses, shattering every single one on the floor and then stomping on them for good measure. He sprang to his feet, reaching instinctively for the sword he didn’t have, as the cell door swung open.

Princess Rosella leaned against the door frame, grinning at him. Around her, the anxious faces of the other royal guards appeared.

“Having trouble, Number One?” she asked.

“Not anymore, Princess Rosella.”

She handed him his sword, and he buckled it around his waist without looking at it, visually checking over all his men instead. They looked rattled, frost limning their uniforms, but otherwise all were accounted for, all seemed safe. He nodded sharply, satisfied, and marched out of his cell with his helmet tucked under his arm. Ice crunched beneath his feet like shards of glass.

“Ice guards,” Rosella said dismissively. “Not paying a shred of attention. Easy to break, turns out, if you can get them to hit the ground right.”

“Might I ask how you’re here, Princess Rosella?”

“You might,” she said, playing along as drily as him, and then she broke character by snickering.

Rosella, Alexander, and Queen Valanice (ohh, shining stars, if the queen was here then they were in _trouble_ ) had found Graham missing (No1 wasn’t even remotely surprised, just annoyed) and had hurried to the castle, where they’d been promptly trapped (meaning he couldn’t send her home, so don’t even try to order it, she insisted). They hadn’t found the king, or the royal guards, but they had found nasty little trap doors inside the hall, which split everyone up. Rosella’s slide had sent her bumping and shrieking with laughter down, down, down into what was probably a dungeon cell but which had been recommissioned into a breakroom by whatever minions this castle supported. Someone, likely not an ice guard, wasn’t pleased with all the snow around, and had made up a straw nest for taking naps in. She'd fallen into this nest, unharmed and giggly.

The cell-turned-breakroom was at the far end of a long series of twisting tunnels, made of dark blue and black ice that reflected her shadowy shape back at her. Her explorations went entirely unnoticed by anyone for a good long while. She’d eventually found the rest of the guards cuddled together in a heap of armor and scarves and gloves behind a locked door, and they’d hastily explained what was going on.

Armed with expectation, she wasn’t surprised when she saw her first ice guard, and she deftly dodged and slipped through the tunnels and open cells until she found the keys she wanted. It had been a feat worthy of anything her father had ever done on any of his adventures to sneak the keys out from the guard room unnoticed by the strange magic creatures. It had involved a bit of string, her tiara, and one of the windup Battle of Wits miniatures she had been carrying in her pocket from an earlier game with Alexander.

A sight to behold, totally memorable, a proper shame no one else had seen it. She gathered up the keyring and hurried away.

She had been unlocking the Daventry team door when the ice guard spotted her. It rushed her, grabbed her, and she would have been completely done for, adventure at an end—if the key for the cell hadn’t already been in the padlock, and if No3 hadn’t been turning it the rest of the way, and if the rest of the royal guards hadn’t burst out to protect their princess. The lone ice guard didn’t stand a chance.

Most of the sculptures from this dungeon area were now fuming behind locked doors, and a few more troublesome ones were now so much chunked ice, blue shreds of animation magic rising like steam before disappearing.

“Easy,” Rosella finished.

“Excellent job,” No1 said. He bowed to her, as befitting royalty. And then they exchanged a very complicated handshake that ended with a spectacularly silly fist bump and the two of them leaning back-to-back. No1 straightened quickly and gave an imperious glance over his men, silently suggesting that if anyone spoke of this moment again, they would be docked pay. “Now then. I imagine King Graham has ended up in some sort of unpleasant trap as well. Princess Rosella, would you perhaps like to assist in another rescue?”

“Always.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing down one of the long dark blue halls. “I heard the strangest noises coming from that direction. I didn’t check it out without backup, though—thought you’d be proud of that. We should probably investigate.”

“A fine idea. Shall we?”

“Let’s shall.”

* * *

The maze was definitely deteriorating. Walls sagging, pillars crunching. Perhaps the weight of the castle was heaviest here, pressing down on the honeycomb of tunnels. Maybe it was something to do with its movement, takeoffs and landings shaking things loose. Graham was vaguely certain he hadn’t been here before. But only vaguely. The rooms still looked about the same, the only difference being the types of statues leering at them, and his head was getting fuzzier and the pain of his arm was starting to pound in his ears in time with his heartbeat.

Graham dizzily recognized that Alexander had started taking the lead, but Graham was too preoccupied to say anything much about it. He was focused on his hand, cradling his arm, careful not to bump it against the debris and ice blocks strewn around the rooms that Alexander was pushing out of their way. Sometimes, Graham thought the ice blocks could have been moved a little _faster_. He almost said so, that anger rising in his chest again, a cold desire to _hurt_ , but then decades of diplomatic leadership kicked in and he realized what he was about to say. He bit down sharply on his tongue and turned a snarky critique into a vague compliment, but then he was back to quietly moping and not paying much attention.

His teeth were starting to chatter as the ice snaked up his body. He yanked his cowl up higher, trying to trap warm air, to do anything to help. It didn’t help at all. Alexander kept glancing back at him, which made the puzzles take even longer, his fingers made clumsy by hesitation and uncertainty.

This room was different. Someone had shoved straw in the corner, between pillars and the wall and some ice blocks, making a sort of sleepy nest to sit in that was warm against the perpetual chill of the labyrinth. A hideaway, Graham thought, and that made him smile a bit, remembering how much he’d loved to hide in Triumph’s stable when he wanted away from everything. The scent of hay was comforting, and snapped through his bleary disinterest, made him stand straight and be aware of his surroundings again. Whoever had made up this little comfortable bed had access to the maze through a tunnel splintered through the wall by a fallen pillar. They must have taken an ice pick and made the tunnel just barely wide enough for someone to squeeze through single file.

“Ah. A short cut,” Graham said. “I’d bet that’ll take us out of the maze and into more inhabitable rooms.” _Hopefully warmer ones, too._

Alexander nodded, inspecting the scrapes and scratches marring the narrow tunnel walls. The two men squeezed through the tunnel, which narrowed and widened and pressed and pulled. Alexander looked queasy and Graham’s arm ached, but they wriggled through without too much difficulty.

As hoped, this area felt considerably more lived in and used. The chilly silence of the maze was behind them. Graham could hear something metallic clanging and echoing nearby. He smiled at Alexander, pleased to have escaped. He pushed open a door—and walked into the center of a crowd of goblins.

There were probably two dozen rock goblins standing around. Most were clutching shovels and were in the middle of scooping snow out of huge hampers and wheelbarrows and into icy furnaces belching snowy clouds up huge chimneys. Some had ice picks, to break up heavier chunks of snow. All of them had scarves and hats and mittens dragged over their armor. Every head turned, and every eye was on Graham and Alexander, and the door swung shut behind them with a click, and Graham mumbled, “Oh. Zards.”

The goblins spun their shovels and held them like spears. Apparently, they didn’t have their real spears with them. The ones with the ice picks still looked as threatening as ever, though. All approached, slowly, encircling the two intruders, hemming them away from the door (not that there was anywhere to go—back into the maze wasn’t a real option). Their helmets revealed not a single emotion, and Graham stepped back unconsciously, swallowing. He’d run into goblins a handful of times since his awful experience in his twenties. They were part of Daventry, like the squirrels. And, like the squirrels, they had their own ruler. There were treaties. There were rules.

But goblins had never been the sort to follow rules.

Something sharp pressed against his shoulder blades, and he froze. It was a shovel, surely, but sharp and heavy enough to cause serious damage, and wielded by a spearmaster. He would never forget the pressure of a spear held against him, and it sent him spiraling back, back, back, and he felt young and inexperienced and out of place again, at a loss to defend himself and his friends. But this time, it was his _son_ at his side, looking absolutely petrified with an ice pick point tickling his ear.

That couldn’t stand. His son had faced enough. Graham wouldn’t let anything hurt him now, not if he could help it. Graham’s fuzzy resolve hardened and he stepped forward, in front of Alexander, his good arm raised to defend, forcing his cold anger in his chest to help instead of hurt.

One of the goblins stepped forward to match him. It wore a hat with a fluffy white bauble sewn onto it, perched almost rakishly over its helmet. Goblins all had uniquely designed helmets, and this one’s forward swooping curl sparked a memory... “I remember you,” he said to it, sternly. “You stole my adventuring hat.” And had been one of the more enthusiastic ones when it came to flipping Graham upside down and shaking him hard to knock loose contraband in his prison cell—he'd had that goblin’s grip imprinted as a bruise on his legs for a month.

If it were possible to see expressions through those helmets, Graham thought the little fellow would be grinning. It swept itself into a low bow, flipping the multicolored scarf it wore like a lady’s ballgown skirt. Definitely one of Acorn’s scarves, Graham decided: he was sure he could spot the little artisan tag sewn near the ruffle. At least one mystery had been solved. Possibly more. Those were probably Amaya’s ice picks.

The shovel that had been at Graham’s shoulders swung low and the shaft whacked the back of his knees. He fell forward, landing hard on his knees. The same thing must have happened to Alexander, because he too fell with a startled cry. Graham remembered this, knew what would come next. Now that he was at the goblins’ level, they’d pull out the rope, bind his hands behind him, and march him away for stars knew what purpose.

But the goblins were chittering amongst themselves in their scratchy language, and there was a general movement of bodies and weapons as something new approached. Something hard clamped down on Graham’s shoulder, on his arm, as tight as a manacle and _absolutely freezing._ He looked up, startled, and Royal Guard Number One stood above him, entirely utterly horribly frozen through like Graham’s frozen arm, his icy cold hand grip—no, wait, not Number One. The mannerisms were wrong, the uniform just a touch off kilter.

Sculpture.

A living sculpture.

Who would possibly want ice guards to look like his Daventry ones? Well, everyone, honestly, Graham thought with a vague touch of glowing pride. No1 had trained the very best. It wasn’t surprising at all that someone would imitate that glorious Crimson Colada uniform for their own regiment. Even if this example of it was a little...abstract and malformed.

Which, he slowly realized, meant that whoever lived in this castle knew Daventry. Or at least had seen his royal guards before, knew of their uniforms. But who? How? Why?

What _else_ did this ice castle have? If a yeti had walked around the corner walking a herd of wedzels on leashes, Graham would have thought it much more sensible. What next? Sentient scarves? Talking cats?

The goblins looked annoyed, like they’d lost something fun they’d been looking forward to playing with, shuffling back with fingers drumming on shovels and picks. Multiple ice guards hauled Graham and Alexander back to their feet, their hands digging like claws into the captives' shoulders. No need for further restraint, not with these things holding them.

The ice guards barked something at the goblins, and they skittered and scattered, rushing back to work. Their language was odd, brittle, and...backward? It somehow seemed reversed. But the goblins had understood well enough, and were back with their shovels, frantically scraping huge piles of snow into the furnaces, in seconds. As the ice guard harried and hustled the two royals through the room, past the bustle of workers, the king watched the furnaces. He was thinking of blizzards, of clouds heavy with snow, of a center to the storm that appeared to be coming from a single point. Number One may have been right after all.

Another ice guard, apparently there to watch over the goblins and prevent laziness, snapped something, and the goblins scurried to work faster. The last thing Graham saw was the forward-curl goblin straining under a very heavy load of snow, whimpering something unhappily. And then Graham and Alexander were dragged out of the furnace room and propelled along corridors and stairs, past alcoves and curtains and cheerless rooms, heading up, up, up, toward the center of the castle and the tower that loomed over everything.


	7. The Ice Queen

Rosella wanted to be the first down the tunnel, and she was annoyed that Number One insisted on taking the lead. “I rescued _you_ ,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

“Even still, Princess. Should something attack, then you shall be able to step in and rescue me, instead of the other way ‘round,” No1 said. “You’ve already proven you’re quite good at that.”

“Well. I suppose that’s right,” she said, glumly. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it sounded a bit like No1 was hiding a grin behind his helmet.

The lower they descended, the louder the clanging sounds got, and the less well-defined the walls became. At some point they’d passed beyond dungeon carved blocks into what felt like either natural caves or something that had been scraped out by hand tools. The guards spread out a bit behind Rosella, watching their backs carefully, hands on swords, ready to defend at a moment’s notice. They weren’t going to be caught flatfooted again, not now that they knew what they were facing.

No1 threw out a hand, a gesture to stop, and Rosella almost walked into him. She frowned, about to complain, when she realized they’d reached the end of the corridor, into a cave that swooped out around them. The Daventry team huddled against the wall, peering around the corner.

It appeared to be a tidy little mining operation. There were a large number of rock goblins with shovels and picks carving out huge chunks of snow and ice, widening the tunnel into twice, thrice its size. They were yanking stalactites from walls, shoveling huge and heavy snowman-ready globs of snow into hampers and wheelbarrows. Another team was pushing the snow laden carts up a huge ramp, feet slipping and sliding as they strained beneath the load, vanishing around a corner but probably going some distance up into the castle, while others with empty carts were sliding back into line, waiting for a fresh fill.

Graham always kept her away from the goblins. Rosella stood on her toes, as far out into the tunnel as she dared. The chance to finally see some of this species up close probably wouldn’t come again. No1 cautiously held his arm in front of her, keeping her back, and she leaned against it, inspecting the activity before them. She was eager, longing to get closer. She remembered the stories, the famous tale of the prison with its glittering fungi and be-costumed captors.

But these goblins just looked tired, not at all pouncy and fun like Graham described. They dragged their shovels along the ground between snow piles, picks rattling off walls in shaky hands. A small number of ice guards stalked among them, criticizing work, directing steps, keeping the work moving at a flurry. One of the goblins had simply stopped and was pouting in the middle of the floor, leaning against its shovel and not working. Rosella watched an ice guard march up behind it and backhand the little creature, yelling at it in that odd backwards language, and the goblin scrambled away, its tattered leather slippers failing to find any purchase on the slick floor.

“What are they doing?” No3 whispered.

“Nothing good, I’d bet,” No2 said.

No1 was glaring. “I have a suspicion,” he said. “A blizzard, from a central point. And here’s the central point’s starting point.”

“That’s what I said, nothing good,” No2 repeated.

No1 shot him a stern glance.

Rosella watched. The hampers’ wheels skittered over slick patches on the floor, and the goblins kept losing their footing, falling against the hampers and sending them spinning across the floor. They scrambled after the carts, crying out in their gravely language, while the ice guards made no movement to help. Icicles stacked like firewood logs clattered and rang against each other, accompanied by the click of guards’ feet on the floor and the scrape of shovels.

The ice curse was turning Daventry into fuel to take, to crush and chip apart, to feed to the castle. To keep the ice curse going. To keep the weather cold. To make more ice. To feed the castle. These working goblins, a likely recent addition, increased the intensity of the resulting weather, increased the power of the castle. Suffocating countries under snow as the castle traveled. Including Daventry.

“We should put a stop to it,” she declared.

“Pardon?” No1 drew back a little to look at her.

“We should stop them.”

“M’Lady,” No1 said, “I do not believe this is an operation we”—he glanced over his shoulder to confirm he still had everyone— _“seven_ can safely control.” At least he counted her in the ranks, Rosella thought. That was more than he’d done in the past.

“We’ve already spent half the day in a cell,” Kyle added cheerfully.

“You’re defenders of the crown,” Rosella said. “And I’m the crown. And I might just need defending.” She started to step forward. A few steps more and she’d be in the mine.

No1 and No2 had known her all her life and could anticipate every silly too-tall-tree-climbing/too-high-cliff-jumping/too-deep-river-swimming/too-big-opponent-fighting move she could make. They both reached out and grabbed her arms and pulled her back instantly, fluidly, without hesitation. “Princess Rosella, please. Direct action is _not_ the right idea here.”

She couldn’t beat either of them in the Battle of Wits board game, either.

“Oh, all right, fine, not that way,” she grumbled. “Fine. But I still say this needs stopping. You know Daventry can’t survive much more snow.”

“I agree. But I count six ice guards and at least thirty goblins. We would be able to take care of the guards if they were alone, but certainly not the others.”

The others. The goblins. Rosella sagged. This wasn’t what she’d hoped to see after her dad’s stories. He’d described them as being so vibrant. Violent and lazy, but clever in their own ways, and eternally creative. These goblins were slow, exhausted. Instead of fairy tale costumes they wore scarves and mittens, and even still she could tell they were shivering. In normal times, they probably burrowed deep in winter to stay cozy warm.

She watched the one that had been slapped picking through ice chips on the floor, throwing them up onto a cart. It kept its head low, slyly eying the ice guards, before ducking out of sight behind the cart and slumping down, curled up with its arms wrapped around its knees. It miserably huffed a little cloud of air, sulking. It was close enough to the Daventry team that Rosella suspected she could have easily called out to it without being heard by anyone else.

“I do have an idea,” she said, very slowly, trying not to scare the shreds of her thought away like the concept was wispy and delicate and easily shredded.

“Not running in swords blazing.”

“No, not that.” And she told them what she’d thought of.

“That’s _just_ as risky, Rosella. If not more so,” No1 said sternly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rosella said, watching the little goblin behind the cart. It had decided it was safe enough and alone enough to pop off its helmet, revealing huge drooping ears pierced with iron bangles and a scrambly tangle of black hair, and it was rubbing its eyes and wiping its drippy button nose on its arm. “I think he would like to hear a good story right about now. We simply need to convince him to come over here to hear it.”

* * *

The throne room in Daventry’s castle was warm and comfortable. Rich tapestries hung along the walls, and the carpet leading up to the throne itself was the plushest the castle had to offer. Huge twisting metal candelabrums illuminated the corners and gave the whole place a soft glow.

The throne room of the ice palace was the opposite: freezing and unwelcoming, with light that danced through the reflective walls until it was a bitter sort of bluish white, almost clinical. It had tapestries, yes, but frozen ones, arching down from the high, high ceiling. Torches cast cold flames. The throne was the most ostentatious thing Graham had ever seen, huge shafts of ice sticking out from it like piercing thorns.

Currently, the throne was unoccupied. The ice guards pushed Graham and Alexander forward anyway, depositing them in front of the empty chair. Graham supposed they were meant to wait for the owner of this castle to swoop in and make a tremendous entrance.

The throne wasn’t completely empty, Graham realized after a moment. A black cat preened there, lounging on a cushion. Cats often looked smug, but this one had a certain glowering triumphant nastiness to it. That was probably just its face, though. Graham liked cats, as a general rule. Their no-nonsense purrrrsonality was sort of endearing. A cat may look at a king, as the old saying went, and no one could tell it otherwise. He was fond of that sassy, adventurous spirit.

Alexander, though, was petrified. He was staring at the cat with open faced fear, and Graham wondered if the young man was dreadfully allergic. Maybe someone on Valanice’s side of the family? No one on Graham’s side had allergies. He tried to speak words of encouragement, but instead of comfort, another voice said, “Ahh, the brat returns, dressed in fancy airs and still short of decent manners. Moron.”

And that was Manannan’s voice.

Graham stepped back, startled, into the ice guard standing behind him, staring at...at the _cat._

“And his idiot high and mighty father, too!” said the cat. Said the _cat._ “Now, this is _too_ lucky. I wasn’t expecting you, Graham. The whole family, here! And I didn’t even have to do anything but show up and open the doors!”

Graham’s heart sank. Manannan knew Valanice and Rosella were here. He’d feared as much. He glanced around, nervous he’d see them tied and silent somewhere, but the room was empty other than the ice guards lining the walls, watching them.

“Manny?” he said, warily, staring hard at the cat, certain it was a trick.

“In the fur,” the cat confirmed, and he flicked his tail. “Of all the curses, I suppose this one makes being in an ice castle the most tolerable. You, Graham, look half frozen. That stupid cloak not warm enough for you?”

He ignored the cat, looking at his son instead. “Alexander, when you said ‘couldn’t do much more than scratch.’ Back when you first came home. Did you...do this?”

Alexander nodded mutely, staring at the cat, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Manny interrupted. “Your brat doesn’t understand boundaries. I tried to beat some sense into him, but that awful Cracker curiosity, ugh. Couldn’t hit that out of him with a thousand switches. Not that Mordack and I didn’t try. Well. Mordack didn’t try, after I ordered him. I found more...compelling methods to try and shake that abundant curiosity, right, Gwydion?”

“Don’t call him that,” Graham snapped, the anger blazing up again.

“He’s been Gwydion so much longer than he has Alexander,” the cat purred. “It’s his name. The greatest gift I gave him, birthday to birthday. You weren’t even there to celebrate a single one, Graham. My dear little Gwydion. It suits you much better, you know. Alexander is so stuffy and spoiled sounding. Not at all reflective of the hard work you used to do so well.”

“He will never be Gwydion again,” Graham said.

“Graham. You weren’t there. You didn’t raise him. Your opinions just don’t matter _._ In fact, I’d rather like it if you _stopped talking.”_ Manny nodded sharply to the ice guards, and one of them clamped a hard hand over Graham’s mouth, yanking him back and pinning him, pulling him up on his toes to keep him off balance and helpless.

The king grabbed at the ice hand with his good arm, struggling, pulling, feeling the cold in his cheeks, in his teeth, but the guard was as sturdy as a glacier. He clung to the guard’s wrist, but he could do nothing. It was like being held by a marble statue.

“Isn’t that so much nicer?” Manny said, after a minute of watching Graham struggle uselessly with frightful glee. “This conversation should be between you and me, Gwydion. You’re the reason I’m here, you know. You’re the reason I bothered to come back to this drainwater ditch of a country. Daventry, _ha._ Piddling and useless in the scheme of the world. I’d moved on to greater countries. Llewdor has so much more to offer.

“I couldn’t imagine anything better to do to Graham than watch him destroy his own country through misplaced grief while I was privileged to raise you. Once I knew you were properly ready for it,” ( _beaten into utter submission_ , Graham thought miserably), “I was going to teach you magic. I was going to use your anger and loss and funnel it. You didn’t need to steal my magic. I was going to give it to you freely, and then I was going to set you on Daventry. It was going to be yours to rule, Gwydion. I was going to give you all the rights and power, and you would have been so much happier with my guidance. We all would have been happier. Me, with Llewdor, and you, with Daventry. We would have made it something great.”

Manny flicked his tail irately, “But you got bored, didn’t you, Gwydion. Perhaps my lessons weren’t good enough. You wanted to learn magic on your own. This curse is bad enough—what _else_ did you steal from me? Gywdion, you’ll never be a good ruler if you steal things.”

Graham made a muffled protest behind the ice guard’s hand, which Manny ignored.

“There is still a chance, Gwydion,” Manny said. “If you return me to a human form, we could go back to Llewdor. You’ve begun your magic training already, even if it was by your own power, but you show incredible aptitude for it. My training, austerity and precision, has sharpened your mind and made it receptive. I have molded you perfectly for this.”

Again, Graham complained, and again, Manny ignored him.

“This cat curse,” he continued, “is very impressive magic. I haven’t been able to figure out its counter, despite all my searching. But I’m sure you have an answer. I had to seek you out. You took the spell book with you—did you bring it here to Daventry? I must have it. I must have you reset this. Mordack doesn’t have any magic. I suppose that’s my fault for not teaching him anything, and I can’t teach him anything in this shape, but you, you _clever observant twerp_ must have learned from watching me. Gwydion, you must fix this.”

Alexander said nothing.

“I have been forced to call upon the services of the lady of this castle for assistance,” Manny continued. “But I’m afraid she can’t restore. She only seems to have ice-based skills, which doesn’t help me. I don’t want her to freeze Daventry solid, Gwydion, at least not at this exact moment. I want you to have a reward at the end of all of this. But if you do nothing, then I can do nothing, and the castle will remain here, and the snow will get deeper, and I’m afraid that your citizens, your Feys and your...oh, I suppose the Hobblepots are probably dead by now, aren’t they? Not even those bats could live forever, and good riddance. Well. The rest of the citizens would soon join them. It would be a pretty poor country, then, boy.”

Graham said, “Mmnhff!”

Alexander said nothing.

“I can have her move the castle away,” Manny continued. “She can go away, and we can be at peace together in Llewdor again. You needn’t be a slave, now—not that you were in the first place,” he added, thoughtfully. “You were a servant, learning patience and perfectionism. And now you’ve learned enough to move to apprenticeship.

“But if you don’t help me, Gwydion, I think she will have to leave the castle here. I’m sure by now the kingdom is struggling under the snow—but when the spring comes and it never melts, what then? What will the little lanes of the town look like? The farms? All that...ah...” he hesitated, apparently looking for something a peasant might like, “farmland?”

Gwydion said nothing.

Manny waited, tail thumping the cushion impatiently. In other shapes, he probably had a decent face for gambling, but that tail was giving away all his thoughts.

“Perhaps you need to think about it,” he said, after a very, very long pause. “But I don’t think there’s enough time for that, Gwydion. I’m sorry you’re so _slow, so thick, can’t make easy choices_ —I can’t improve the speed of your mind, as much as I would love to. Perhaps that’s something we can work on together in Llewdor.” Somehow, Graham could _hear_ the promise of rope and nails and various vile potions in that sentence. “But maybe we can do something else? Perhaps your father could convince you? He should try, of his own power, before I add my own pressure. Although, Graham, you should know...I do _really_ want to add my own pressure. Specifically, to _you_. As a method of persuading your son, of course, no other reason.”

He nodded to the guard, and the weight on Graham’s mouth eased. The guard let go, stepped back, and Graham sagged, rubbing his mouth with his good hand. The chill from the ice creature had settled deep into his bones, and he felt his knees threatening to give out. He would have fallen, but the guard caught him again, supported him. Graham clutched at his bad arm, the dizziness only growing stronger with the persistent cold.

The cat’s face twisted into as like a frown as its features could get. “You weren’t held _that_ long,” Manny said, suspiciously. “You’re very pale, Graham. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Graham said.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing,” Graham snapped, shifting his weight so that his cloak fell forward, hiding his entire right side.

“Then you wouldn’t be holding it like that. What’s wrong? Something painful, I hope. I want to see,” he ordered. The ice guard shifted its grip from support to captivity again, yanked Graham's arm forward—Graham yelped involuntarily, and they all heard ice crackle as his shoulder straightened, that same strange ice-in-lemonade sound his fingers had made earlier with Valanice—and the guard ripped Graham’s gloves off, revealing one ordinary hand and one clear, blue, sculpture-like hand. The digits were as inflexible as icicles, and the wrist and elbow were completely locked in place. It caught the light, reflecting chilly shadows across Graham’s chest. The ice guard released Graham’s arm after showing it to Manny, and Graham, breathing raggedly, the pain only adding to his dizziness, cradled the cursed arm close, leaning into the guard and hating his helplessness.

“ _Oh,_ ” Manny said, and startled cackling. “Ohhh, look at _you_. And is that it there, too, spreading up your neck?”

Graham’s good hand immediately reached to check, and the look that crossed his face as his fingers brushed the hard blue surface just barely visible above the collar of his cowl made Manny curl up on the throne with peals of shrieking laughter. His tail thumped a terrible beat.

“That’s excellent!” Manny leapt down and padded near Graham—not near enough that he risked getting kicked. He inspected the ice. “That looks like the same curse the dear lady of the castle suffers, but it’s spreading so much _faster. Y_ ou’ll be surprised to know this wasn’t my idea, although I rather wish it had been. Look how stiff your fingers are! You, if you’ll pardon the petty little joke made at your dreadful sense of humor’s expense, are becoming a _pop_ -sicle. I do wonder if it’s survivable if it’s spreading so quickly.”

“I came here to find a way to lift it,” Graham muttered through gritted teeth, trying to coax his stiffening shoulder back so that he might hold it more comfortably.

“Aaaah. What a pointless waste of time. There isn’t.”

Graham said nothing.

“Every pitiful second you have left must be purrfectly agonizing,” Manny said. “How delightful. I do wonder how fast it spreads. Perhaps we should pause” ( _paws,_ Graham thought, automatically) “this conversation and reconvene in a few hours to see the changes. For scientific reasons, of course. Gwydion, consider this lesson one: we shall evaluate the speed of this curse, _dissect_ it, and then increase its power.” He barked an order, sharp and odd in his cat’s throat, and the ice guards again clamped their hands tight on Graham and Gwydion's arms.

Before the ice guards could start hauling them out, though, a door near the throne opened and the queen of the castle swept in, her icy skirt skating over the floor. Her dress’s train twinkled behind her, little ice specks arrayed like diamonds. She looked over Graham and Gwydion with a practiced royal haughtiness, and said, “Cat, you did not tell me we had other guests. There are so many visitors to my castle today, and I fear I am being an impolite host with my attention so divided.” She flicked a hand lazily at the ice guards, and they instantly released their captives, though they did not step away.

Graham realized he was staring. Her voice had an odd resonance to it, like it was laced with an echo from the deepest, coldest cavern, but he knew that voice nevertheless. Her face was sharply lined, frozen with clear blue ice in the same way that his arm was transforming, but flexible, with features that he knew without a doubt. Her high cheeks and button nose and large eyes were features that couldn’t be hidden even under a veneer of magic.

“Valanice,” he breathed, blinking at her.

“Pardon, sir, but do you address me?” the queen asked, her voice cold as a blizzard.

“Valanice,” he repeated, louder.

He remembered. A castle, walking through the clouds. Warm blankets and pillows banked up in piles near the cooking fire to stave off the chill. Two princesses sharing the same regal name and the same trapped fate, doomed to wander until true love broke an antiquated curse. Cuddled together around a book, around a puzzle, laughing together while he tried to make pancakes.

One princess in particular lounging in a sunny patch with her chin propped on her hands as she told stories, one princess in particular slapping down the winning card in a game with exaggerated triumph, one princess in particular dancing in the starlight and the reflective glow of the spell holding them all captive. A dear friend who had slowly drifted away once they had all escaped, had cut herself off, had stopped answering their letters.

A dear friend who, Graham suddenly realized, had been still trapped by one curse even as they escaped another.

“Valanice!” Graham stepped forward. The guard behind him raised its hand ever so slightly, to catch him and drag him back again should he act aggressively.

“I’m afraid, sir, you may have me confused with another, somehow,” the ice queen said. She tossed her snow white hair over her shoulder, her blue crown glittering on her brow. “That is the name of my other guest. It is a delightful name, though. I do feel rather fond of it. I wanted to speak with her, but Cat said we both ought to rest before enjoying an official audience.”

“V-Valanice,” Graham said, uncertainly, pressing down panic starting to bubble in his chest. His queen, his wife, _his_ Valanice, locked away in some freezing room awaiting ‘hospitality.’ With Manny as host, that probably meant something very nasty. “What have you done to her?”

“Let her sleep, of course. Cat said she must be worn out after coming all the way to my home. She was so exhausted _,_ she could not keep her feet when we met. She couldn’t even finish the lovely tea Cat ordered for her, so I told her we would speak later and left her to her rooms.”

Graham had a pretty good idea what sort of tea Valanice had been given. Probably forced to drink at knifepoint. Chamomile almost certainly was not involved. He could only hope that the wizard, in this be-clawed shape, couldn’t craft any more of that rare but potent hypnosis powder. “Manny, if she’s hurt, you are going to pay.”

“A good night’s sleep helps us all,” the cat said. “I should like you to sleep, too.” Never had an innocuous sentence been spoken with such venom and threat.

“’Tis true,” the ice queen said, and she gracefully settled into her throne. “My name, sir, is Queen Icebella, and I welcome you to my home. May you find it a warming balm on your soul after your travels, for I fear that my home is very far from civilized parts. You may introduce yourself and your ward.”

“You know me,” Graham said. “You know me very well already.”

She frowned, her imperious expression frostier than ever. “I find that impossible, sir. We have not met.”

“I am King Graham, ruler of Daventry, and you are Princess Valanice of Kolyma, and we have traveled together in the past, together with my wife Valanice, whom you have drugged and locked up somewhere. Valanice, _please_! You must remember me! Remember her!”

“I do not take kindly to presumptions and liars,” Icebella said sharply. “You must be king of a very poor country indeed, unless you are lying about that as well and have stolen airs for yourself.”

Stolen airs. Stolen heirs. Stolen lives.

“Valanice,” he began again.

“My name, _Graham_ ,” she snapped, biting out his name with no trace of remembrance, not a hint of warmth, “is Queen Icebella, and I do not tolerate impertinence.” She looked like she wanted to strike him down, beginning to rise out of her throne with all the unstoppability of a glacier.

“My sweet lady,” Manny cooed, breaking her focus so easily, drawing it back to himself. He padded back to the dais and leapt onto the throne arm, tail swishing gently against her wrist. “Do not waste your temper on rabble. He certainly is not worth your effort. You are intended for better, dear Icebella.”

“Dear Cat, you are always so wise,” Icebella said, and she gently stroked the silky black fur, her frozen fingers catching the light. “This audience goes poorly.”

“My Queen, I was going to have these two ruffians removed until their tempers are more refined. I thought a brief stay in one of the guest rooms would relax them; I suspect they are as tired as your other guest. And then, perhaps, we can all meet together with manners befitting royalty. Although, perhaps, these two are entirely unmannered. It may be best, My Queen, if you did not have to look at them again. They can be removed permanently if you command it. I shall have the guards remove them from your sight, esteemed lady. Guards!”

“No, Cat, wait,” she said, raising a hand. “Permanently? I find that displeasing. We have so few guests. I do wish to speak with them and learn of what they have seen outside.”

“My Queen, if you desire that, we may. However, they are very unrefined. Another guest would be better. These two should be escorted away and replaced with someone more appropriate for your level of royalty. Guards!”

“No, Cat, I rather do want to hear more from them. The one in red is annoying, but interesting. If he believes himself a king, he may have some information for me about his country that I should like to know. Do not have them permanently removed.”

Manny’s face twisted and his tail thumped hard as some unconscious sign of his displeasure at being overruled, at having his sly manipulations ignored, although Icebella didn’t notice as she was too busy studying Graham. He said, voice tight with politeness, “As My Queen commands. They shall return for a brief audience with you later, after they have rested. Guards.” The order was flat and bored and disappointed sounding.

“Graham,” Icebella mused, blissfully ignorant of Manny’s irritation. “It is a nice enough sounding name. Pleasing. I should enjoy your company as a guest in my home, but next time we speak, do not anger nor insult me, or I shall indeed lose my temper, and that is unbefitting. In a few hours, Cat, I should like to set the appointment, and I look forward to it. Do see to it, my friend. You are so good at commanding my guards to work quickly and precisely.” She spoke with pure open honesty, not a trace of irony or sarcasm. And with that, she left the room, skirts ringing as decorative ice droplets dripping from the fabric clattered against each other.


	8. Belonging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I mentioned that this fic should consider the prologue to ch4 canon? I didn't see the point in rehashing the scene line for line in fic format when it's pretty perfect as is in the game. But you might want to take a quick refresher on it now. 
> 
> Specifically, [[this moment here]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJKYK44Lynk)
> 
> (the goal has always been for this rewrite to be copied and pasted over ch4, with chapters three and five left canonically intact~)

Each room in the tower was shrouded in ice. They looked like ordinary rooms, but with their contents replaced by strange facsimiles. He glimpsed a frozen table, frozen curtains, a frozen bed. The furnishings were all as one might expect, but they were cold. Cheerless and unwelcoming and flat and hard, and now he was paying attention, hauntingly familiar.

This was the tower, he knew without a shred of doubt, that had carried him, Valanice, and Valanice together through the clouds. Vee and Neese, his friends. Then, it had been cursed in a way that ensured its inhabitants could never leave. Now, it was cursed with ice, and it spread its curse boundlessly. It had taken on additional buildings and courtyards and walls as it had traveled. Whole huge rooms for its labyrinth. He wondered whose castle walls these had been. Whose courtyard had been stolen. That stable, those barracks, that lamppost. What had been lost to this traveling curse?

He thought of the sculptures of people, in their dizzying array of clothes and styles and features, frozen in the labyrinth, and he amended: _who_ had been lost to this traveling curse?

Valanice... _Icebella_. Icebella had been lost to it.

Daventry was losing more to it by the moment. It was going to take his family next.

The guards pushed them into a small room and left them alone. The door locked behind them, a cold sound that reminded Graham nauseatingly of the prison he’d been locked in as a brand-new king, shivering and alone and afraid of the dark.

This room wasn’t a proper cell, at least. It was possibly a workroom of some sort, full of tables and chairs of a utilitarian nature. He tried to remember, twenty years ago, what this room would have been, but nothing came to mind. It was now filled with more of those frozen people-sculptures. People like Graham, people from other countries this castle had visited, cursed and frozen and dead.

Manny, recent addition to Icebella’s court, apparently hadn’t known about the ice curse itself spreading to people. Or, at least, hadn’t known the particulars, hadn’t seen an example of it in action. He had been surprised by Graham’s slow conversion. But it definitely wasn’t a secret now. He knew about the power of this place and he could do _so much_ with it. Could freeze anything, _anyone_ , who stood in his way. Steal the pieces of their countries he wanted, grafted onto the original tower like mashing clay toys together.

Did Icebella know how this curse worked? Could she stop it if she wanted, or had all these people frozen beneath her helpless hands? Had she acted maliciously or accidentally, or had she anything to do with this at all? Had it been something Hagatha had done, corrupting everything while Graham and Valanice just barely escaped?

Icebella....

He shivered, pacing to keep warm, the chattering of his teeth setting a rhythm. “We spent that whole spring together. She was Valanice’s best friend. She was at my _wedding,_ Valanice’s maid of honor. She danced with us all through the night, laughed with the royal guards, loved us wholly.” The memories were warm, hazy, bathed in a golden glow of nostalgia and joy. But for the first time in years, he let himself really think about the time after that spring in Hagatha’s tower, _this_ tower.

Somehow, he realized, the wedding was the last time they really spent time together as a trio. And even earlier than that, during the courtship of his soon-to-be-wife, she had stayed distant, less willing to spend time with them. She broke herself away from them, and they didn’t reach out to her as frequently or as hard as they ought to have.

“She wore gloves,” he muttered. “Even in fine weather. At the wedding. I never saw her hands after we left the tower. And I didn’t think. I didn’t ask. I should have thought. I should have _noticed_.” He stared at his own icy hand, locked up and clear and blue, and it _hurt,_ a cold ache that gnawed his bones. And he wondered. Had he seen her shivering in the sunshine, had he dismissed it as a trick of the light?

“I should have known.”

And, in her fear of being alone, she had carved her own guards with her newfound ice magic in mimicry of Royal Guard Number One’s uniform, had kept a piece of Daventry close by her side, to protect her, even as she sank deeper and deeper into a curse, even as she forgot where the designs had come from, why they had ever mattered to her at all.

“I should have _known_.”

He paced, and paced, and his steps were slower, and slower, and his breathing grew laborious. The white clouds of condensation from breathing in cold weather were heavier, almost like dark little clouds full of snow. Like the curse was spreading through his chest, crystals spiderwebbing across his lungs.

He realized in his distraction he didn’t know where his son was. The room was small, but the young man was good at finding little nooks and crannies and burying himself in them. Graham found him curled in a corner behind a table, surrounded by reaching ice sculptures, clutching his head in his hands.

“Alexander?”

“Gwydion,” he whispered. “I’m Gwydion. That’s all I’ve ever been. All I’ll ever be. This is my fault. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. Everyone is going to die because of me.”

Lost. So lost. Alone and lost.

Graham knelt stiffly. “My son, my dear Alexander, please, don’t. This is not your fault. You have done nothing wrong. You deserve the world and the chance to make what you want in it. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. Alexander, none of this is your fault.”

“Manannan wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t cursed him.”

“You couldn’t have escaped him if you hadn’t. And we never would have been blessed to meet you.”

His son said nothing. He curled deeper into himself, shaking with fear and cold, sure he had brought all this on the sunny kingdom of Daventry, sure he had brought its destruction.

Graham leaned against the leg of a statue, clutching his arm. In a voice laced with frost, he whispered the words to an old lullaby, not sure if he was speaking to his son or himself at this point. An old memory stirring up from the dust as he remembered his friends and his hope. He didn’t sing. He didn’t feel like he could get enough air in his chest to sing. But he could speak, and he repeated the words to a song that he hadn’t thought of in almost eighteen years.

_I may be king but you are my prince.  
If life gets too puzzling, I’ll give you the hints.  
Your quest has begun, my kingdom you’ll run,  
I’ll love you forever, my son._

They sat in silence. Graham just tried to breathe. Thinking about cats and curses. Staring off into the cold shadows of the room, the chill seeping into his heart.

After a while, Gwydion said, softly, hesitatingly, “You never finished the story.”

“I didn’t? What story is that?”

“About the goblins. How you escaped. That July. I want…I want to hear the rest of it.”

Graham told the rest of his story, then. It was abbreviated. It lost all of the usual polish and storylike qualities it had earned over the years. He told it haltingly, painfully. Without the fairy tale sparkle, he started remembering the fear more. The fear that his friends were going to die while he watched helplessly from the other side of a locked door. All the smoothness was worn away by the ice in his throat, revealing an uneasy ripple that he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t tell it any other way, with his son watching and the cold strangling him.

Manny had tried to kill him, and he would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for Graham’s refusal to give up, for his reliance on his friends. It ended with hope, but the road had been hard.

And then, Gwydion told his own story. For the first time, from start to finish, willingly. He couldn’t remember all of it. There were eighteen years of it, and much of it was the same: menial tasks for a wizard who was quick to punish if Gwydion didn’t work as fast or precisely as expected. But parts of it were memorable. The manor house itself, for instance. It was just him, and Manannan, and Mordack.

Mordack would watch him with cold pity, and that was almost worse than Manannan’s cruel anger. It meant Mordack didn’t necessarily agree with any of this—but wouldn’t do anything to help. So Gwydion worked, and hid, and scrimped, and survived, but he had a growing fear that something was reaching an end. Something about turning eighteen frightened him, like something major was going to change in the manor and that something wasn’t going to be good for him.

Deciding to escape had been relatively easy. Actually escaping was another matter all together.

The fear of not knowing when the wizard would catch him, where he should hide the tools of magic he stole, if he would be discovered. The challenge of the magic itself, the near misses and tight scrapes. Triple checking every step, every line, again and again, mouth dry with the thought of failure, or worse, being found. Practicing the wrist movements, chanting the ingredients needed, reading the books, sneaking down to the hidden cellar with stolen wand clamped in his shaking fist, afraid of breaking it or marking it in some noticeable way. Finally building his confidence to craft the one spell, the curse, that would save him, to break the cat cookie in Manannan’s breakfast and to try not to give the whole game away too early. To wait for the magic to take. And the difficult decision of what to do next.

“I ruined it by coming here. I should have gone far away, where there wasn’t anyone for him to hurt.”

Graham reached out and touched his son on the shoulder. His Alexander. His brave Alexander. Not Gwydion, never again. “You deserve a place to call your own as much as anyone, and you can carve your place out anywhere. But you came here, Alexander. If you’ll have us, we want you. In Daventry. That’s all we ever wanted. To have you with us, to have you call this place with everyone—Amaya, Whisper, the Feys, Acorn, everyone. To let you, Alexander, call this place home. You shouldn’t allow someone like Manannan decide where you go, who you are. You shouldn’t even let us decide for you. That’s your freedom.”

Alexander, nervously, leaned into Graham’s hand, and then into him, his shoulder pressed against Graham’s chest. He was shivering, but his warmth helped ease Graham’s pain. The king felt like he could breathe again, like the ice in his lungs was melting.

Gingerly, he embraced Alexander, and for once, he didn’t flinch away. His dear son, full of magic, of fire and heat and fear, stifled by the cold but powerful nevertheless. He’d escaped. He’d used Manny’s own tools against the wizard, and he had chosen to come here. He was stronger than he’d ever know. Graham smiled, resting his cheek against his son’s wavy hair, thoughts drifting like icebergs. If only he could somehow convince his son to see that. But it would take more than Graham’s words. It would take a heartfelt conviction. A fiery intensity and determination to change.

Heat. Warmth.

… _wait a second_.

_Warmth. My fiery son._

But the guards burst in, and pulled the two up by their arms (Graham bit back another yelp, wishing people would stop yanking on his aching arm) and it was time for their audience with Queen Icebella.

* * *

Valanice was dizzy. She didn’t feel like she could stand for more than a moment, and her boots couldn’t seem to keep traction on the slippery floor. The queen of the castle had linked arms with her and they were proceeding down the castle halls in silence. Despite the normally friendly sort of gesture of walking arm in arm, the queen was haughty and detached, ramrod straight with her cold gaze fixed firmly down the hall, unwavering and unblinking. Valanice walked beside her, feeling slovenly and slumpy and hazy and unfocused. Her vision kept blurring in and out.

She had the strangest sense that she had done this, had walked like this, arm in arm, with this queen before, giggly and full of joy. But that was silly—the queen, Icebella, was frosty and blue and distant, and they had never met.

At least, she thought so. It was so hard to focus. But no one was actually blue. Probably. Maybe. Maybe fairies. Maybe she was with a fairy.

Her head hurt.

“Come, Valanice,” the queen said, and there was a slight echo to the words, like she was speaking from the back of a snowy cavern. “I have asked for a chair for you, by my throne. I am sorry to wake you when you are so exhausted, but I want you to meet this amusing visitor to my castle. He claims he is a king, and his bright red cloak is most grand.”

Bright red cloak. Sounded familiar, somehow. Valanice nodded blearily, not trusting herself to speak and walk at the same time.

The throne room was remarkably bright despite the late hour. Valanice had to squint against the white reflective ice, and she dizzily sank into the chair offered her, only realizing after a few moments that it, too, was made of ice, like everything in this place. She started shivering. Or maybe she’d never stopped shivering.

The cat sitting on the throne beside her seemed to smile at her, pawing its ear. As though cats could smile. She would have given it a friendly pet had she been able to lift her hand, but that seemed too complicated and wearying a thing to do.

Ice guards lined the walls of the room, hands on swords sharp as icicles. She supposed they were meant to protect her and the queen from whoever their visitor was about to be. She wondered if this audience would be safe. But with so many guards, surely she need not feel concerned. She was grateful to them and their grim silence.

It was a lovely red cloak, she decided, as the supposed king stumbled in, propelled along by one of the ice guards. That was about all she could say for it. It didn’t seem to be keeping him very warm. His lips were turning blue. How interesting. Maybe he was a fairy too. A fairy king.

Wait.

* * *

Gwydion.

Alexander...?

 _Gwydion_. He stood in front of his former master, and Gwydion was all that he could be. He didn’t have a choice. He was clumsy, and he was foolish, and his attempt to escape, to take a different name, had failed. He was before Manannan, as before, as always.

Not entirely alone this time. Gwydion could feel the cold radiating from the king despite standing several paces away. The king’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He tried wrapping his cloak tighter, but there wasn’t any warmth to hold in. And that was Gwydion’s fault, too, for not stopping him from touching the roses, Gwydion’s fault for leading the ice castle here, Gwydion’s fault for believing, even for an instant, that he could be this man’s son.

From the dais, a voice called, “Graham!” The lady of Daventry half stood from her chair, but a wave of dizziness seemed to overwhelm her, and she sank back down helplessly, clutching the chair arms as though that was the only thing keeping her upright. Powerless to do anything but speak.

“V-Valanice,” Graham managed. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on Icebella.

“Do you refer to me? I did command you to stop calling me so,” Icebella said. She stood straight before her throne, her gaze haughty. Frustration made her icy cheeks turn white. “I wished to begin differently, sir, but you try my patience immediately. Perhaps Cat was right, and you are too foolish for my attention. My name is _Icebella_. It was given to me. My special name.”

“How was it g-given?” Graham shivered.

“Cat is sweet, and Cat said the name suited me, and Cat gifted it to me when I had no other name.”

From the throne, Manny stretched long and luxuriously, tail flicking. He yawned, showing off a fierce row of sharp little white teeth, and smiled, sitting straight. “Names do matter, don’t they, Gwydion? They indicate so much. They tell others who you are, where you belong. Speaking of names, Graham, I’m wondering what name we should carve under your ice sculpture in a few hours. I can’t decide. Maybe we should workshop it. You should pick a pose now, I think.”

Graham ignored this. “Icebella,” he said, stepping forward and bowing to her stiffly, icy arm locked into place at his side. “I apologize for my rudeness and b-beg your forgiveness.”

“I may grant it,” she said. “I have questions for you as a supposed king, after all, and I would regret not being able to ask you about your kingdom if I ordered you thrown out a window for impertinence.”

“Of c-course. But. May I ask you a question f-first, in earnest?”

She hesitated, probably knowing where this was going, and then said, reluctantly, “You may. It does seem only fair, from queen to king.”

“With the full respect owed, and you may ch-choose not to answer me: how long have you been Icebella?”

She frowned, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to lash out again. “I suppose not long,” she finally admitted, after deep consideration. “A few months, at best. Before then, I was no one, I fear.”

“You weren’t no one,” Graham said. “You were special, Valanice.”

“Icebella,” Manny interrupted smoothly. “You are only a person now that you’ve been named. Your name is ice, your name is beauty. Before, you were no one, as you say. You were dark and sad and alone, and I named you, and I saved you, and you are Icebella.”

“Stop calling her that,” Valanice said. “Her name was Valanice. She loved adventures. She loved sunshine. She was competitive and sharp and creative and energetic, and she was all those things as Valanice, and I would bet she is _still_ all those things.”

“You wouldn’t know,” the cat hissed. “You didn’t reach out to her, find her. You didn’t let her know she was still Valanice. She was lost, and I found her, and I named her, and I saved her, and she is _mine.”_

Gwydion felt the chill, then, in a way he hadn’t before.

Names.

Ownership.

Names are crucial. Names matter.

_And I’m not the only one Manannan hurt._

Someone else here had lost her name, and someone else was using her powers to lash out, guided by a monster who only wanted her to do his bidding. Who only wanted to own her and use her.

_I was that person too, a slave to a wizard. Lost name. Lost self._

But...he _had_ run away, hadn’t he? Gwydion. Alexander. The power of a name. And...maybe...?

“Icebella,” Graham said. “Valanice. You loved books, and music. You loved puzzles, and you loved art, and you loved stories, and you loved games, and you shone like the sun, not ice. You could d-dance and—” his voice broke off with a crack like snapping an icicle, and he coughed hard, little puffs like snow clouds floating around him, shivering so violently it looked like he was going to splinter into shards of ice.

“And you could sing,” Valanice, the queen, picked up where the king could not, “And you knew all the names of all the constellations. And you could embroider, but you thought it was boring. And you could beat all of us at chess every single time, and you knew every fairy tale, even the rare ones. And you loved us. You were so full of love and life and compassion and care. You weren’t no one, Valanice, even in the darkness. You were Valanice, and you could do _so much_. And we’re sorry, so sorry, we left you.”

Icebella hesitated, hovering over her throne, looking at Valanice with something unreadable in her expression—perhaps sorrow? But then she glanced toward Manny, and her eyes hardened again. “If what you say bears even a shred of truth,” she said sharply to the Daventry family, “then you have done me a disservice. You spoke not to me when I was...that other person, and I was lost, and I may blame my years of darkness and wandering upon _you_. Cat came out of the darkness, and Cat saved me, then, and I am Icebella, and shall remain so.”

The smug grin on the cat’s face made Gwydion bristle, made him angry. Alexander had once been angry enough once to teach himself magic, to take his fate back into his own hands, to turn his fear into determination, and to _escape_.

And he would do it again.

“Your castle moves,” he said. Both Graham and Valanice turned and stared at him, and he stammered nervously, but he _had_ to speak. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, if he could help or hurt, and none of this was considered, but he had to speak.

“Your castle moves,” he repeated, “but do you ever feel like you have a home? Or do you always feel lost, even now, as Icebella?”

Icebella’s gaze was haughty and angry and he cowered beneath her authority. But he rose again, feeling the heat of the magic he’d taken for himself in his chest. “I always feel lost,” he told her. “I lost my name, too. I lost my identity and my purpose, and I was given another one, one that I didn’t want by someone who didn’t love me, and I walked away from it, and I’ve been wandering, looking for a place that could be mine, a name that I could have.”

“You do not understand loss,” Icebella said, and her voice was colder than the deepest ice cave.

“I lost my home,” Alexander countered. “I lost my family. I lost everything. I wasn’t anyone. But here, in Daventry, I’ve seen people who know where they belong. The bakers, the blacksmith, the knights, the guards, everyone. They live here, and they build stories here, and this is their home. They know their names, and who they are, and they’ve all been trying to help me learn a name I could take for myself. They look frightened when they remember I was once Gwydion, and they want to call me _Prince_ Alexander. But I think I’m _just_ Alexander. I think that’s my name. And I think I’ve found a place where I could overwrite my loss. A place that welcomes travelers, that tells stories, that is sunny and warm even when it’s snowy and cold.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Manannan said. “Shut up, Gwydion, the adults are talking.”

“No, I won’t. I’m Alexander, and this is my home, and I don’t want it to be cold and heartless like you’d want it to be. This kingdom is full of life, and I will protect it in any way I can.”

He looked at his father. “I learned something,” he said, and he was worried and quiet again, like he was taking something from Graham that he didn’t feel he’d earned. “It didn’t help me at first, because I didn’t really understand the point of it, even with all the stories. But it’s a salute that you can do to center yourself, to feel brave when you don’t want to be, to be compassionate when you’re upset, to be wise when you feel confused.” He gave an Achaka salute, thumping his fist into his open palm. “It’s to remind you that you aren’t alone,” he said. “That there are people who will always support you and care for you if you look. People who will tell stories with you and help you belong.”

“This is drivel,” Manannan said. “This whole family is a waste of air.”

“But you admit that he’s part of our family,” Graham said, his voice almost as hollow as Icebella’s now, crackling out. “This kingdom has opened its arms to him and taught him our stories and let him become part of us. If he wants.”

“And I think I do want that,” Alexander said, and he stood tall. “I think that’s what’s important to me. The stories they tell here always show what matters to them. What’s important to them. What’s important to you, Icebella? What was stolen from you? Was it a name? Was it a home? Was it a family? What do you want back? And did Manannan—that cat—give it to you? Has he ever even given you a choice?”

She didn’t have an answer to that.

“This is all very sweet,” Manny said, his tail thumping on the throne, voice oozing disinterest. “But I just don’t see the point of any of this. I’ve still won this game. I’ve captured the entire Daventry _family”—_ he spat the word with disgust _—_ ”from the king and queen to the lowly castle guards, and I can dispose of them whenever I see fit.

“Gwydion, you claim this place as your home, fine. It won’t matter, because it’s going to belong to me now, since the king is in- _deposed_. But first I’m going to ask very politely, very _pointedly_ , for you to lift this curse, and we can be as _pointed_ as we must for as _long_ as we must until I get what I want.” His tail thumped again in emphasis. “I’ve won, and all of this is pointless, pandering, meandering tripe. I have ice guards. I have goblins. I have the queen herself. I always get what I want.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that at all,” said Rosella.

* * *

Graham’s neck was starting to lock up now too, but he managed to turn just in time to see his daughter standing inside the throne room exchanging...yes, exchanging a high five with Royal Guard Number One. “An excellent riposte, Princess Rosella,” No1 told her.

Royal Guards Two, Three, Four, Kyle, and Larry were standing in a loose semicircle at their sides, swords drawn. And, crammed into every inch of space between the guards, vibrating with barely suppressed excitement, were rock goblins. The goblins were all colorfully decked out in every color of Acorn’s winter stock, scarves and hats and socks, and they were all bristly with picks and shovels. One or two of them had even managed to recover their regular spears. They were all, to a goblin, glaring at the ice guards. Except for that old familiar forward curl goblin—it graciously tipped its snowcap at Graham.

The room hummed with anticipation, both sides carefully observing the other. Number One especially seemed to be running calculations and expectations: his head never stopped moving, checking every angle while he stood otherwise perfectly poised. There was a breathless pause, and in that pause, Icebella stood, furious about this unexpected intrusion to her audience.

“Guards!” Icebella said, flinging her hand out in command, “to the dais! Protect my royal self and my guest Valanice from these ruffians!”

But the ice guards hesitated for a fraction of an instant, looking to the cat for true instruction, and that was plenty of time for Manny to smoothly intervene. “That seems like an unnecessary waste of resources. I have a better idea. I have no need for this charade anymore, no need for _you_ , my dear—everything I want is right here and I will take it _._ Guards! _Kill_ Icebella, and take Graham and Gwydion alive _._ Kill the rest, and the goblins. I won’t need them anymore, not once I’m free of this curse. My magic will be enough.”

Icebella whirled, skirts twisting around her, to stare at the cat sitting in her throne, but ice guards stepped between them, protecting the smug wizard, and she stumbled backward, hands raised not in command but imploringly now, startled and afraid of her own creations. Of her once-upon-a-time friend.

“Goblins,” No1 snapped, drawing his own sword, “defend the royal family!”

“Including the ice queen!” Alexander yelled.

“Really? Very well. Including the ice queen,” No1 amended. He raised his arm, and the goblins streamed around him, whooping and laughing.

The ice guards lining the walls had drawn their own swords. Some took defensive stances, but many of them sprinted forward to fill Manny’s order. They were immediately driven back: there were too many goblins and a crew of very annoyed and very determined royal guards. The ice guard standing near Graham did grab its opportunity. Specifically, it grabbed the king and yanked him off balance, drawing him close and pinning his arms behind his back. His stiff shoulder bent awkwardly. Graham yelped, sure his ice arm was probably going to snap in half considering how many people kept _pulling_ on it.

But forward curl goblin knocked the ice guard out by the knees, swinging its shovel hard enough for the ice to splinter. Graham staggered forward as the ice shattered around him, pieces glittering like dust motes. The goblin gave him some sort of complicated gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring but instead looked rather menacing before scampering off to take down someone else. No1 stepped up beside Graham in its place, sword raised to defend, giving his king a determined nod. Graham returned the nod, clutching his aching ice arm with his good hand.

Around them, chaos reigned, goblins wailing and gleefully attacking their hated bosses, royal guards hacking left and right, ice cracking beneath their swords. The ice guards were fighting back, their icicle blades scraping and tearing winter wear but unable to penetrate rock goblin armor or Crimson Colada platemail, making the fight a series of quickly timed events in favor of the Daventry team. When the Daventry team wasn’t caught unawares or desperately outnumbered, they were quite good at their jobs.

One enterprising goblin managed to tug a frozen tapestry from the wall and went sailing through the air, clutching it like it was a vine and warbling a war cry, its little stocking’d feet slamming into an ice guard. Another pair had gone for the Kyle and Larry route, one charging in with another on its shoulders, both deadly at short range, while the real Kyle and Larry did the exact same thing a few feet away. Still others just went for the general bashing and tackling and pouncing methods. Graham remembered being on the wrong end of those pounces and winced in sympathy.

Near the dais, Icebella drove her attackers back as best she could with her ice magic, but the sheer number of guards that had been close when the fighting began would have overwhelmed her in moments had she been alone. But she wasn’t alone, not now. No2 and a pack of goblins leapt to her side, shouting and slashing and kicking and, at least in the case of one or two goblins, biting. No2 didn’t bite anyone, though he may have considered it. Nearby, Numbers Three and Four and their own small group of goblins stood guard over Valanice. The Queen of Daventry was still dizzy, and she clung to her chair watching everything unfold in silence. Her gaze never left Graham, not once, not even when No3 desperately struck with her sword and took off the arm of an ice guard reaching for Valanice.

The outcry and laughter and mayhem echoed around the throne room, but all told, the fight lasted not much longer than a few minutes. The scuffle had kicked up frost motes, which settled after a moment, revealing goblins sitting on, lounging against, and generally mocking the ice guards, all of which were broken or helpless under their new captors’ hands. On the dais, Icebella, safely ringed in by a handful of determined goblins, stood glaring at one very guilty looking black cat. Manny’s ears and tail drooped, and he seemed very small, all his plans quite suddenly cracked like shallow ice.

“Cat,” Icebella said, sharp and cold. “I do not wish you to be part of my court any longer. Get out.”

“I think that might be for the best,” Manny agreed. He jumped out of the throne and started sheepishly creeping away, until one of the goblins, who had clearly been in this room before and seen this sort of thing happen already, pushed aside a curtain, grabbed a lever, yanked, and opened the floor up beneath the cat’s paws.

“Oh, zards.” And Manny disappeared down the slide. It slammed back into place behind him, silencing his startled cry.

Valanice stumbled off the dais, pushing aside her goblin guard, and ran to Graham. She was still off kilter from whatever they had done to her earlier, and she stumbled, and she fell into him, hugging him tightly. He tried to lift his arm to hug her back properly, but it was completely dead now. Everything was locking up. His vision was blurring, and everything was so _cold_. Her breath on his icy cheek was warm and nice, but it did not melt anything. She tearfully kissed him, like that could break the curse, like a story would have it, but nothing happened, and Graham’s body was simply giving up. Rosella and Alexander and his guards stood around him, and Valanice flung an imploring look back toward Icebella.

“Please,” she begged. “He’s freezing to death. Please, can’t you help?”

The ice queen stood alone, in front of her ostentatious throne and her frozen tapestries and her snowy carpet and her broken ice guards, and her imperious stance seemed to be diminished. She looked anxious, and confused, and she was shivering. “I don’t know how, Valanice,” she said, and her voice was softer, gentle and sorrowful. “I’ve never known how. If I could have lifted my own curse, I would have. But I couldn’t. I can’t help. I’m sorry.”

“But I...I might be able to help,” Alexander said.

Valanice stepped back. Graham could feel her absence, could feel the cold rushing over him without her, could barely breathe now. He realized his heart had been slowing down, choked by ice, and the lethargy was almost overwhelming, but his knees had locked into place so at least falling wasn’t a concern.

Alexander continued, “This is a curse. It’s greasy, and sticky, and dark. You don’t stop a curse. You break it. Icebella isn’t the origin of the curse. It’s the castle. It moves, it never settles, it’s always looking for a place to belong, right? It’s stealing everything it can to make itself strong. All the buildings in the courtyard, all the people in the labyrinth, and you, Dad. It’s always traveling, always searching, and always taking, and it’s never satisfied. But, Dad, you know exactly where you belong. You belong here, in Daventry. And I think that’s the answer to this, what will break it.

“I’m new at magic,” Alexander admitted. “And it seems to work best if I can use something extra to give it strength. Either my own emotions, or…or I think music might focus it, if it has meaning. And this one…I think it means a lot to you, and to me, and it might be a way to show the curse belonging. I hope.”

Alexander started humming a familiar song. An old lullaby. A song Graham once sang over a cradle minutes before Manannan burst in, stole his son, ruined their lives.

Graham would have stumbled backward in surprise if he could. “You remember your lullaby,” he said, and his voice was as hollow as an ice cave.

“I didn’t remember the words,” Alexander said. “When you spoke them, earlier, they were just words. They didn’t mean anything to me. But...but they fit the melody I remembered. Something soft, this old song that I could rely on when I...when I was upset. I used to hum it at night, when my chores were done. When I felt lost. But I remember them together now. The music and the words together.”

His voice was quavery, and small, and it didn’t seem to have any power to it, but he willingly hugged his father for the first time, and he sang the words gently, and Graham sang with him, stuttering and broken, his voice locking up with ice and fading away, until Valanice let her voice join theirs, and Rosella joined the embrace, and they were warm and gentle and strong together. And Alexander had a warmth to him, some deep spell he was drawing on, some magic he had stolen and turned to his own purposes, the same way he’d melted a hole in the tunnel, a power of his own devising. It was almost too hot, this brilliant shimmering intellect and care and ability, and he channeled it with the music, focused it, and….

Graham’s knees melted, buckled beneath him and he went down in a heap, and his whole family reached out and caught him, and everything was different and everything had changed, and the cold had left him, and he grabbed hold of his son, keeping him squeezed tight in the embrace, and Alexander let him without any complaint, and Graham breathed freely again, and he stared at his hand over his son’s shoulder, flexing his fingers in wonder.

And they stayed like that for a long time, royal guards standing by watching and waiting and protecting, until Graham could finally stand again, smiling.

At least he was smiling until he realized he was _also_ being hugged around the leg by two goblins. They tilted their heads to look up at him, apparently grinning beneath their helmets. The rest of the goblins were staring, too, long fingers flexing on their picks and shovels.

“Rosella, Number One, what did you _do_?”

“Funny story,” Rosella said brightly. “So, like, under the castle, there were these goblins, and they were building the snow storm, and I didn’t want that, and I...” she frowned, and looked to No2. “I’m telling this badly again,” she complained.

“I think I know a better way to tell the story,” No2 agreed. “Who wants to do a reenactment play!” he called over the goblins, and every single one of them raised their hands eagerly.

No1 groaned. “I will not,” he said.

“Then I’ll play you, that sounds neat, and...that charming looking goblin right over there can be me. Rosella, do you want to be yourself, or maybe an ice guard?”

“Definitely an ice guard.”

“Okay, then I need someone to play Rosella. Hands up again, who wants to be a princess?”

The story, as it worked out, was like this:

One lone goblin, after being abused by the ice guards one too many times, was having a very hard time, hiding behind an ice cart used as a component to generate the perpetual blizzard that powered the castle, helped it move, gave it fuel, gave it strength. Rosella called out to the goblin, tempting it, by whispering, “Once upon a time, there was a very brave little goblin.”

The little fellow had jammed its helmet back on and followed the story like a trail of bread crumbs, until it found itself surrounded by Daventry Royal Guards and its princess a good distance up the tunnel from its companions. It shrieked, and it would have turned and fled, but Kyle and Larry had jumped it and held it, and Rosella said, “Don’t you want to be a brave goblin like the one in the story?”

And that had made it pause, just for a second, just long enough for Rosella to tell another story about a little goblin who was sick of doing everyone else’s chores, and who got all his friends together, and when they were together, they were very strong indeed, and could throw off their tormenters and make the terrible people do all the chores instead. Which the goblin liked very much, it being both rather violent and promising that it wouldn’t have to do any more chores. And also, the story ended with the goblin getting to go home and enjoy the warmth of a dark, damp cave, surrounded by its glowing mushrooms, content and happy.

The goblin had slipped back into the mines, with Rosella and the royal guards watching anxiously after it in case it decided to betray them after all and turn them into the ice guards for the promise of some time off. But it did as they’d suggested, sneaking up goblin by goblin, whispering the plan, and then those two goblins spread out from there, whispering to another two, until suddenly the whole mining operation was giving the ice guards shifty glances and the little goblin gave Rosella a sly thumbs up, and Royal Guard Number One had pulled out his sword and they’d all gone charging in. The ice guards had spun around, ready to fight the royal guards…but they hadn’t been expecting to have to fight their goblin charges, too.

It had been quick work from there on, whispers of Rosella’s story passing from goblin to goblin to goblin, until all the ice furnaces grew still, and all the ice guards were dispatched, and the new and improved team of Daventry could move on and help their king.

The story was told with rather extravagant and overblown gestures, goblins pouncing and leaping and taking each other down to replicate the tale No2 was narrating, having an especially good time telling about the attack, and at the end they all took a ragged bow, out of breath and tired and very, very happy for the first time in what must have been ages.

Graham, Valanice, and Alexander applauded. And then a fourth person started clapping, too.

Icebella had retaken her throne and was watching the story with rapt delight on her normally stern features. She was smiling, her teeth like little ice chips. “That was delightful,” she told the goblins. “I did not know I had such talented people working in my castle. You must have come with Cat, yes? You are much better company.”

“Ice…Vala…” Valanice bit her lip, unsure what to say.

“You may remember me as Valanice,” the ice queen said, and her face wasn’t nearly so dark now, “but I’m afraid I still do not. Your stories of who I was are kind, but I prefer Icebella. Even if it was a gift from Cat given in possessiveness, it was still a gift, and one I have become accustomed to. I should like Icebella, please.”

“Icebella,” Valanice repeated. “Icebella, I’m sorry. I can make every excuse I want, but in the end, you’ve still been hurt by us. We never reached out to you as friends should have, and I’m sorry. Perhaps we can do something for you now? My son…”

But Alexander was shaking his head. “Mom, I can’t. It’s a stable curse. I don’t know how to lift it now it’s been in place for so long. I think only the person who cast it can lift it at this point. I don’t even know who that would be.”

“Hagatha,” Graham said. “I think it was Hagatha. I don’t think she meant to hurt you, Icebella, but. I think her curse spread from this tower to you. I’m sorry, but we don’t know where she is, or if she’s even still alive.”

“I do not mind,” Icebella said, though there was a hollowness to her voice that betrayed her sorrow. She twirled her fingers, and a rose, clear as glass, formed from ice in her hand. “There are many things I can do this way, and I have been Icebella for longer than I can remember being anyone else. But…your story,” she said, looking at No2. “You indicated that my home is hurting yours. And so, I should depart this place, and quickly, so that your home may recover without me.”

Valanice looked stricken. “You can’t go,” she said. “Please, we’ve lost you for so long. Don’t leave us again. Don’t wander lost. You said you didn’t know yourself, before Icebella, and that darkness sounds frightening and lonely. Please. Don’t let that happen again.”

Icebella looked at her ice rose, and crumpled it in her hand. “You cast me away before,” she said, though she bore no hatred in her voice now.

“We were young and silly and in love and these are pointless excuses,” Valanice insisted. “You can’t leave, not when we’ve found you again.”

No1 muttered, in a stage whisper that nevertheless carried around the room, “But the castle needs to leave.”

Valanice nodded sharply. “Then, let’s take the castle away, and return to Daventry after it is safely hidden somewhere, up high in the mountains where it can’t hurt anyone anymore. It is as my Alexander said: this kingdom is a place of stories, where we welcome travelers. It doesn’t have to be your home, unless you want it to be, but you won’t know unless you try it. Daventry castle is enormous. We have a place for you even temporarily. If you don’t have a destination, at least stop with us for a little while to decide. I’ll stay with you into the mountains, and we’ll travel back together.”

“Valanice,” Graham said, warningly.

“No, shush, Graham. It’s a girls’ night and you’re not invited.”

Graham stepped toward her, wobbled on his freshly healed leg, and almost fell over. She caught him and they leaned against each other, and he whispered in her ear, “She did try to kill us. She doesn’t remember her past. Is this fully thought through?”

“It’s Valanice, and you know it, and this has all been Manannan’s fault, as per usual,” she said back. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. This isn’t some plan for martyrdom, this isn’t some silly rescue that only I can do. But I’m not going to let anyone, especially not a friend we’ve already lost once, go wandering alone in the world with no one she can call on. Not again.”

Graham considered, then nodded. There was relief there, a keen desire to see his dear friend content and happy again. “Okay. But you’ve got to take some royal guards with you.”

“I’ll take Number Three with us, if she agrees.” And she pulled the guard’s arm.

“Agrees to?” No3 asked, warily.

“Girls’ night,” Valanice grinned. “Or, rather, girls’ couple weeks while we take this castle up to the snowy mountains and leave it there and come back.” She looked up at Icebella. “Of course. This is all if you want to do so, Icebella,” she said. “I’m sorry that Manny thought he could own you. I won’t do that to you. If you do want to leave, we shall step aside and let you. In the end, every choice should be yours.”

Icebella looked at her broken rose, at the stem splintered in half and the shards glittering in the light.

“I am a queen,” she said, “of nothing. Of one tower. Of some ice guards. And that’s all. I think in my travels I have hurt people. Stolen people. Even though I don’t think I meant to do it, the curse on this tower absorbs and encompasses and _consumes_ everything. It all seems fuzzy without Cat telling me what to do. But I think…I think I would like to rest, for at least a short time, and your young man’s tale of Daventry makes it seem…like a warm place to do that. May I please rest with you?”

“For as long as you want, my dear friend.”

* * *

The sun was shining both outside and inside Daventry castle.

Outside: that was perfectly normal. It was the beginning of spring. The snow was melting away, and if you knew where to look, little green sprouts were resolutely starting to poke out of the earth.

Inside: well, that was perfectly normal, too. With the warmer weather came the opening of the tapestries, the huge windows letting sparkling sunlight pour into the castle, making dust motes glitter. But, now, the place shimmered in a way it hadn’t before. It helped that Icebella had created a large number of small ice diamonds, stringing them in every window—their unmelting magic caught the sunlight as it passed through them, splintering each beam into dozens of flickering rainbows.

But it was more than just the passing of the season.

The whole castle felt the change. It was brighter and warmer here, the King and Queen no longer lost and afraid and lonely. The royal guards had more of a bounce in their step, less wary of what might be around the next corner. The townsfolk felt it, too, energized to create more and share more as they realized how curious and excited for life the two newest, recently rescued, members of the castle were.

Graham and Valanice walked through the courtyard, hand in hand, feeling the warmth of the sun. Rosella sat on the balcony above them, glaring at the Duel of Wits board game spread out on the table in front of her and wondering how she’d lost to Alexander yet again. Maybe if she tried moving her pieces like _this_ she wouldn’t lose as often. She couldn’t wait for him to get back so she could try it out.

Alexander had taken Icebella on a stroll through the forest, like his father had done for him. He had so many things he wanted to show her, and now that the snow was disappearing, he wanted to take her to the little overlook that showed off the entire valley, so they both could see what it looked like in the new season. And they could return the next season after that and see the changes in their home. Because it was their home, their place, that had welcomed them. They might both move on, someday, as was their right and ability, but for now, they had both found a place they belonged. And that was all they needed.

For now.

* * *

The sun had set, but the lanterns had been lit. Little pools of glowing warmth dotted the garden, and night insects chirped. Gart was sitting in the garden on a bench, knees drawn up to his chest, looking very young in the torchlight. His arms were wrapped tight around his legs, and he was staring at the floor. There was a crumpled letter next to him, pinned into place by a rock so it couldn’t blow away.

Gwendolyn took a deep breath. She thought of the stories, of how brave everyone had been, how they had learned so much about identity and home, and she walked into the garden. As she walked, the grass broke beneath her feet, and the warm sweet scent of life surrounded her. The bushes were in bloom, too, filling the air with soft fragrance. Even this late at night, she thought she could hear the distant sound of some passing minstrel with a lute strumming his way along the forest paths, reveling in the safety of the country.

She loved it here. She loved Daventry. It wasn’t her home, not like Green Isles were, but she still had a right to share it with Gart, even for a little while.

But when he looked up at her approach, she saw he’d been crying, and she saw the letter at his side was tearstained, and it looked like he’d crumpled it and opened it and crumpled it and opened it again, smearing the handwritten note that, even from here, Gwendolyn could tell was Grandpa’s handwriting, his signature. Some official looking addendum, with his signet ring’s crest stamped into the wax near the bottom of the page.

“Gwendolyn,” Gart said, his voice thick, “I’ve been a beast, and I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a perfect brute to you lately. It wasn’t fair. You’re still just a child, after all.”

“You’re just a kid too, y’know,” Gwendolyn said, and she tried to smile at him, to make him smile with her like Grandpa would with her, but his gaze dropped to the ground again. “What’s going on? Is it because of…what you said? It…it wasn’t nice.”

“And I’m sorry,” Gart said, and buried his face in his arms. Muffled: “I shouldn’t have said those things. I knew they were wrong. They weren’t what a king should say.”

“First off, I forgive you, honest. Second off, you aren’t a king yet,” Gwendolyn said. “You don’t have to get things right all the time. At least, not right away.”

“I might never be a king,” he said. “Not…not with you here.”

“Gart, you _just_ apologized. Don’t start it again.”

“It’s not that.” He nodded toward the paper, without looking at her or unfolding himself.

Gwendolyn reached down, picked up the letter, and scanned. “This is an addendum about…” she paused, struggling with the level of official legalese the council expected addendums to have. “Oh. This…this says…that the crown of Daventry’s tradition should be reinstated like Edward had it, allowing the crown to pass to any _person_ the king chooses, not just the first male heir in the existing line. Does…that means that I could…?” A sudden image of Grandpa’s crown on her head as she stood in front of the magic mirror flashed before her eyes, and she almost staggered.

“It’s not that,” Gart said, sniffling. “I mean, that’s why I said those things to you, why I wanted you to leave. I was scared of it. But. Read the rest, too.”

And she did. And she dropped the letter, and she sank next to her cousin, and the two turned into each other and pulled each close, because King Graham had written of his illness, what was keeping him bedridden, and his rapid decline, and his imminent death, and the changes that he foresaw coming to Daventry.

But that story was yet to happen.


End file.
